GEORGE  BARR  SCUTCHEON 


JUSTINE    SHERROD. 


THE 


SHERRODS 


reorge  Barr'McCutcheon 

Author  of  "GraustarkTCastle 

Craneycrpw"  Etc. 

Wit  A  Illustrations  \y 

C.  D.Will  Jam* 


Copyright,    1903,  by 
Dodd,  Mead  and  Company 


Entered  at 
Stationer?  Hatt 


Published  September,  190S 


HILL    AND    LEONARD 
NEW   YORK  CITY,  U.  S.  A. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER.  PAGE. 

I.  THE  SOFT  SUMMER  NIGHT    .    .      9 

II.  "LET  NOT  MAN  PUT  ASUNDER"     15 

III.  JUD  AND  JUSTINE    .    . .  .    .     .     28 

IV.  MRS.  HARDESTY'S  CHARITY  .     .     37 
V.  WHEN  THE  CLASH  CAME  ...51 

VI.  THE  GIRL  IN  GRAY    .  •  .,    .     .     68 

VII.     LEAVING  PARADISE 83 

VIII.  THE  FIRST  WAS  A  CRIMINAL  .     .     92 
IX.  THE  ENCOUNTER  WITH  CRAW- 
LEY  ....  105 

X.  THE  CLOTHES  AND  THE  MAN  .  117 

XI.  WHEN  THE  WIND  BLOWS     .     .128 

XII.  THE  GOOD  OF  EVIL    ....  142 

XIII.  THE  FINDING  OF  CELESTE    .     .  155 

XIV.  "MY  TRUEST  COMRADE"  .     .     .164 
XV.  ONE  HEART  FOR  Two .     .     .     .174 

XVI.  THE  FALL  OF  THE  WEAK    .     .185 

XVII.    AT  SEA 192 

XVIII.  'GENE  CRAWLEY'S  SERMON  .     .  204 

XIX.  THE  PURE  AND  THE  POOR        .216 


CONTENTS 


PAGE. 


CHAPTER. 

XX.     THE  SOCIABLE 232 

XXI.  THE  COMING  IN  THE  NIGHT  .     .  249 

XXII.     THE  FIRST-BORN 260 

XXIII.  THE  TALE  OF  TEARS  .     .     .     .270 

XXIV.  THE  NIGHT  OUT 277 

XXV.  THE  LETTER  TO  CRAWLEY  .     .  290 

XXVI.  Two  WOMEN  AND  A  BABE  .     .301 

XXVII.  THE  END  OF  IT  ALL  .     .     .    .315 

XXVIII.     HEARTS 323 

XXIX.  CRAWLEY'S  LEGACY    .    .     .    .331 


vi 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

* 
JUSTINE  SHERROD Frontispiece 

PAGE. 

"!N  A  SECOND  CRAWLEY  WAS  ROLLING  UP 
His  SLEEVES" 56 

"You  MUST  LET  ME  PAY  You  FOR  IT"  .  82 
"His  EYES  TOOK  IN  THE  PICTURE"  .  .  .190 
"  TOU'RE  A  LIAR — YOU'RE  ALL  LIARS'  "  .  228 

"  '!T  is  NOT  TRUE/  HALF  SHRIEKED  CE- 
LESTE"      316 


THE     SHERRODS 

* 

CHAPTER  I. 

THE  SOFT  SUMMER  NIGHT. 

THROUGH  the  soft  summer  night  came 
the  sounds  of  the  silence  that  is  heard 
only  when  nature  sleeps,  imperceptible 
except  as  one  feels  it  behind  the  breath  he  draws 
or  perhaps  realizes  it  in  the  touch  of  an  unexpected 
branch  or  flower.  The  stillness  of  a  silence  that  is 
not  silent;  a  stillness  so  dead  that  the  croaking  of 
frogs,  the  chirping  of  crickets,  the  barking  of  dogs, 
the  hooting  of  owls,  the  rustling  of  leaves  are  not 
heard,  although  the  air  is  heavy  with  those  voices 
of  the  night — the  stillness  of  a  night  in  the  country. 
All  human  activity  apparently  at  an  end,  all  sign  of 
life  lost  in  somber  shadows.  The  ceaseless  croak- 
ing, the  chirping,  the  hooting,  the  rustling  them- 
selves make  up  this  unspeakable  silence — this  sweet, 
unconscious  solitude. 

A  country  lane,  dark  and  gloomy,  awaited  the 
moon  from  the  clouded  east.     Lighted  only  here 


io  THE   SHERRODS 

and  there  by  the  twinkling  windows  in  roadside 
homes,  it  lay  asleep  in  its  bed  of  dust.  Far  off  it 
straggled  into  a  village,  but  out  there  in  the  country 
it  was  lost  to  the  world  with  the  setting  of  the  sun. 

The  faint  glow  from  the  window  of  a  cottage 
poured  its  feeble  but  willing  self  into  the  night  as  if 
seeking  to  dispel  the  gloom,  dimly  conscious  that 
its  efforts  were  unappreciated  and  undesired.  Down 
at  the  rickety  front  gate,  cloaked  in  blackness,  stood 
two  persons.  Darkness  could  not  hide  the  world 
from  them,  for  the  whole  world  dwelt  within  the 
confines  of  a  love-lit  garden  gate.  For  them  there 
was  no  sound  of  life  except  their  tender  voices,  no 
evidence  that  a  world  existed  beyond  the  posts  be- 
tween which  they  stood,  his  arm  about  her,  her  head 
upon  his  breast.  They  spoke  softly  in  the  silence 
about  them. 

"And  to-morrow  night  at  this  time  you  will  be 
mine — all  mine,"  he  murmured.  She  looked  again 
into  his  face,  indistinct  in  the  night. 

"To-morrow  night!  Oh,  Jud,  it  does  not  seem 
possible.  We  are  both  so  young  and  so — so — " 

"So  foolish!"  he  smiled. 

"So  poor,"  she  finished  plaintively. 

"But,  Justine,  you  don't  feel  afraid  to  marry  me 
because  I  am  poor,  do  you?"  he  asked. 

"Do  you  think  I  have  been  poor  only  to  be  afraid 


THE   SOFT   SUMMER    NIGHT   n 

of  it  ?  We  love  each  other,  dear,  and  we  are  rich. 
To-morrow  night  I  shall  be  the  richest  girl  in  the 
world,"  she  sighed  tremulously. 

"To-morrow  night,"  he  whispered.  His  arm 
tightened  about  her,  his  head  dropped  until  his 
lips  met  hers  and  clung  to  them  until  the  world  was 
forgotten. 

Far  away  in  the  night  sounded  the  steady  beat 
of  a  galloping  horse's  hoofs.  Louder  and  nearer 
grew  the  pounding  on  the  dry  roadway  until  at 
last  the  rollicking  whistle  of  the  rider  could  be 
heard.  Standing  in  the  gateway,  the  silent  lovers, 
their  happy  young  hearts  beating  as  one,  listened 
dreamily  to  the  approach. 

"He  has  been  in  the  village,"  said  she,  at  length 
breaking  the  silence  that  had  followed  their  pas- 
sionate kiss.  Her  slender  body  trembled  slightly 
in  his  arms. 

"And  he  is  going  home  drunk,  as  usual,"  added 
the  youth  sententiously.  "Has  he  annoyed  you 
lately?" 

"We  must  pay  no  attention  to  what  he  says  or 
does,"  she  answered  evasively. 

"Then  he  has  said  or  done  something?" 

"He  came  to  the  schoolhouse  yesterday  morn- 
ing, dear — just  for  a  moment — and  he  was  not  so 
very  rude,"  she  pleaded  hurriedly. 


12  THE   SHERRODS 

"What  did  he  say  to  you;  what  did  he  want?" 
persisted  her  lover. 

"Oh,  nothing — nothing,  Jud.  Just  the  same  old 
thing.  He  wanted  me  to  give  you  up  and — and — " 
She  hesitated. 

"And  wait  for  him,  eh?  If  he  bothers  you 
again  I'll  kill  him.  You're  mine,  and  he  knows  it, 
and  he's  got  to  let  you  alone." 

"But  it  will  all  be  over  to-morrow  night,  dear. 
I'll  be  yours,  and  he'll  have  to  give  up.  He's  crazy 
now,  and  you  must  not  mind  what  he. does.  When 
I'm  your  wife  he'll  quit — maybe  he'll  go  away. 
I've  told  him  I  don't  love  him.  Don't  you  see,  Jud, 
he  has  hope  now,  because  I  am  not  married.  Just 
as  soon  as  the  wedding's  over  he'll  see  that  it's  no 
use  and — and  he'll  let  us  alone." 

"The  drunken  hound!  The  idea  of  him  daring 
to  love  you !  Justine,  I  could  kill  him !" 

The  horseman  swept  past  the  gate,  a  swift  black 
shadow  amid  the  thunder  of  hoof-beats,  and  the 
lovers  drew  closer  together.  Just  as  he  roared  past 
them  his  whistling  ceased  and  a  strong,  bold  voice 
shouted : 

"Hello,  Justine !"  He  was  saluting,  in  drunken 
gallantry,  the  girl  whom  he  believed  to  be  asleep 
beneath  a  counterpane  near  some  black  window  in 
the  little  house.  The  horse  shied,  his  whip  swished 


THE   SOFT   SUMMER    NIGHT    13 

through  the  air  and  cut  across  the  animal's  flank; 
the  ugly  snort  of  the  beast  mingled  with  oaths  from 
the  rider. 

The  girl  shuddered  and  placed  her  hands  over 
her  ears ;  her  companion  set  his  teeth  and  muttered : 

"The  dog !  I  wish  that  horse  would  throw  him 
and  break  his  neck !  He's  not  fit  to  live.  Justine, 
if  there  is  a  man  who  will  go  to  hell  when  he  dies, 
that  man  is  'Gene  Crawley.  And  he  wants  you — 
the  hound!  The  sweetest,  gentlest,  purest  girl  in 
the  world !  He  wants  you !" 

They  forgot  the  rider,  and  the  clatter  of  the 
horse's  hoofs  died  away  in  the  night.  The  lovers 
turned  slowly  toward  the  house.  At  the  door  he 
stooped  and  kissed  her. 

"The  last  night  we  are  to  part  like  this,"  he 
whispered. 

She  laid  both  hands  upon  his  face. 

"Let  us  pray  to-night,  dear,  that  we  may  be  al- 
ways as  happy  as  we  now  are,"  she  said  softly. 

She  opened  the  door,  and  the  two  stood  for  a 
moment  in  the  fair  light  from  the  cottage  lamp. 
From  above  him  on  the  door-sill,  she  laid  her  fin- 
gers in  his  curly  brown  hair,  and  said,  half  timidly, 
half  joyfully: 

"The  last  night  we  shall  say  good-bye  like  this." 

Then  she  kissed  him  suddenly  and  was  gone, 


I4  THE   SHERRODS 

blushing  and  trembling.  He  looked  at  the  closed 
door  for  an  instant,  and  then  dropped  to  his  knees 
and  kissed  the  step  on  which  she  had  stood. 


CHAPTER  II. 

"LET  NOT  MAN  PUT  ASUNDER/' 

LHE  next  night  they  were  married.  In  the 
little  cottage  there  were  lights  and  the 
revelry  known  only  in  country  nuptials. 
The  doors  and  windows  were  open,  and  scores  of 
young  people  in  their  best  clothes  flitted  in  and  out, 
their  merry  voices  -ringing  with  excitement,  their 
faces  glowing  with  pleasure,  their  eyes  sparkling 
with  the  mischief  peculiar  to  occasions  of  the  kind. 
There  were  the  congratulations  and  the  teasings; 
the  timid  jests  and  the  coarse  ones;  the  cynical  bits 
of  advice  from  lofty  experts;  the  blushes  of  pro- 
spective brides;  the  red- faced  denials  of  guilty 
beaux;  the  smiles,  the  winks,  and  the  songs;  the 
feasting  and  the  farewells. 

"That  boy,"  Jud  Sherrod,  and  "Cap"  Van's 
daughter,  Justine,  were  to  be  married.  The  com- 
munity would  have  liked  to  be  glad.  Everybody 
had  "allowed"  they  would  be  married  some  day. 
Now  that  the  day  had  come,  amid  the  rejoicing 
there  were  doubts,  such  as  this : 

"They's  a  mighty  nice-appearin'  couple,  but 
dinged  'f  I  see  how  they're  goin'  to  git  along. ,  Juct 


i6  THE   SHERRODS 

ain't  got  no  more  bizness  workin'  on  a  farm  than  a 
hog  hez  in  a  telegraft  office.  Course,  his  pap  was 
a  fanner,  but  Jud's  been  off  to  seminary.  He  don't 
give  a  dodgast  fer  the  farm,  nohow,  an'  I  perdict 
that  she'll  haf  to  keep  on  teachin'  school  fer  a  livin'. 
Course,  that  little  land  o'  hern  might  keep  'em 
goin',  but  I  bet  a  barrel  o'  cider  'at  Jud  won't  be 
wuth  a  bushel  o'  corn-husks  at  runnin'  it.  He's  a 
dern  nice  boy,  though,  an'  I'd  hate  like  Sam  Patch 
to  see  a  morgidge  put  on  the  place.  What  she'd 
orter  done  wuz  to  married  some  big  cuss  like  Link 
Overshine  er  Luther  Hitchcock.  They'd  'a'  made 
somethin'  out'n  that  little  eighty  up  yander,  an' 
she'd  never  need  to  worry.  Dinged  if  she  ain't 
put'  nigh  the  purtiest  girl  I  ever  see.  Looks  jest 
like  her  ma.  'Member  her?  Don't  see  what  she 
ever  could  see  in  Jud  Sherrod.  He  cain't  do  a 
dasted  thing  but  draw  picters.  His  pap  had  orter 
walloped  him  good  an'  made  him  chop  wood  er 
somethin',  'stead  o'  lettin'  him  go  on  the  way  he 
did.  They  do  say  he  kin  sketch  things  powerful 
fine.  He  tuck  off  a  picter  uv  Sim  Brookses'  sucklin' 
calves  that  was  a  daisy,  I've  hearn.  But  that  ain't 
farmin'  by  a  dern  sight." 

Even  Jud  and  Justine  had  looked  forward  to  the 
great  day  with  anxious  minds.  Both  realized  the 
importance  of  the  step  they  were  to  take,  for  they 


"LET  NOT  MAN  PUT  ASUNDER"  17 

were  possessed  of  a  judgment  and  a  keenness  un- 
common in  young  and  ardent  lovers.  Justine,  little 
more  than  a  girl  in  years,  knew  that  Jud  was  not 
and  never  could  be  a  farmer ;  it  was  not  in  him.  He 
knew  it  as  well  as  she,  though  he  was  not  indolent ; 
he  was  far  from  that.  He  was  ambitious  and  he 
was  an  indefatigable  toiler — in  art,  not  of  the  soil. 
He  was  a  born  artist.  By  force  of  circumstances 
he  was  a  farmer.  The  tan  on  his  hands  and  face, 
the  hardness  in  his  palms  had  not  been  acquired 
unwillingly,  for  he  was  not  a  sluggard,  nor  a 
grumbler.  He  plowed,  though  his  thoughts  were 
not  of  the  plowing ;  he  reaped,  though  his  thoughts 
were  not  of  the  harvest. 

They  had  been  sweethearts  from  childhood. 
They  had  played  together,  read  together,  studied 
together,  and  suffered  together.  It  seemed  to  them 
that  they  just  grew  up  to  their  wedding  day,  a  per- 
fectly natural  growth.  Had  this  marriage  come 
five  years  earlier  everything  would  have  been  dif- 
ferent. Instead  of  the  little  cottage,  clean,  cozy, 
and  poor,  there  would  have  been  the  big  white 
house  on  the  hill,  surrounded  by  maples  and  oaks; 
instead  of  the  simple  gown  of  white  lawn  there 
would  have  been  a  magnificent  silk  or  satin;  in- 
stead of  the  sympathy  and  the  somber  head-shak- 
ings of  wedding  guests  there  would  have  been  re- 
joicing and  approval. 


xS  THE   SHERRODS 

To-night,  as  the  little  clock  on  Justine's  bureau 
struck  eight,  she  left  her  room  and  met  Jud  in  the 
narrow  hall  upstairs.  Downstairs  could  be  heard 
the  muffled  voices  of  an  expectant  crowd,  an  occa- 
sional giggle  breaking  through  the  buzz.  He 
kissed  her  and  both  were  silent,  thinking  of  other 
homes.  One  remembered  the  big  white  house  on 
the  hill,  the  other  the  old  yellow  farmhouse,  large 
and  rambling,  "over  on  the  pike."  To-night  they 
faced  the  minister  in  the  parlor  of  one  of  the  low- 
liest dwellings  in  the  neighborhood.  The  boy  had 
not  an  acre  of  all  his  father's  lands;  the  girl  was 
poor,  at  the  gates  of  the  famous  Van  homestead. 
They  were  married  not  in  his  house,  but  in  hers. 
The  cottage  stood  in  the  corner  of  a  thirty-acre 
farm  that  had  come  to  her  through  her  grand- 
mother. This  was  all  except  memories  that  the 
child  had  to  connect  her  present  life  with  the  com- 
fortable days  of  the  past. 

Old  Mrs.  Crane,  who  lived  with  Justine  in  the 
little  cot,  met  them  at  the  foot  of  the  creaking  stair- 
way and  threw  open  the  door  to  the  parlor.  Be- 
fore the  boy  and  girl  gleamed  the  faces  of  a  score 
or  more  of  eager,  excited  friends.  There  was  hardly 
a  girl  in  the  crowd  who  was  not  dressed  more 
expensively  than  the  bride.  Justine  was  proudly 
aware  of  the  critical,  simpering  gaze  that  swept 


"LET  NOT  MAN  PUT  ASUNDER"  19 

over  her  simple  gown;  she  could  almost  read  the 
exultant  thoughts  of  her  guests,  as  they  compared 
her  plain  lawn  to  the  ridiculous  finery  that  hid 
their  sunburnt  necks,  scrawny  arms,  and  perspiring 
bodies. 

Her  face  was  fresh  and  flushed  with  happiness, 
pride — perhaps  disdain;  their  faces  had,  at  least, 
been  washed  and  lavishly  powdered.  Most  of 
them  wore  absurd  white  gloves  over  their  red  arms. 
Yet  they  were  the  elite  of  the  county.  There  were 
red  dresses,  blue  dresses,  yellow  dresses,  and  there 
were  other  dresses  in  which  the  colors  of  the  rain- 
bow shone,  all  made  to  fit  women  other  than  those 
who  wore  them.  The  men,  old  and  young,  bearded 
and  beardless,  were  the  most  uncouth  aristocrats 
that  ever  lorded  it  over  a  countryside.  True, 
they  had  put  on  their  store  clothes  and  had  black- 
ened their  boots  and  shoes;  they  had  shaved,  and 
they  had  plastered  their  hair  faultlessly;  they  had 
cast  aside  their  quids  of  tobacco  and  they  were  as 
circumspect  as  if  they  were  at  church. 

Justine  and  Jud  stood  with  clasped  hands  before 
the  young  minister,  listening  to  his  lengthy  and 
timely  discourse  on  the  blessedness  of  matrimony. 
Then  came  the  vows.  Their  eyes  met.  The 
answers!  They  breathed  them — the  yes  and  the 
yes  and  the  yes — almost  unconsciously.  Then  the 


20  THE   SHERRODS 

last  words — "Whom  God  hath  joined  together  let 
not  man  put  asunder!" 

For  the  next  two  or  three  hours  they  were  in  a 
whirl  of  emotions;  everything  was  hazy,  uncertain, 
misty  to  them.  They  had  taken  up  each  other's 
burdens,  each  other's  joys  for  life;  they  had  begun 
a  new  existence.  She  was  no  longer  Justine  Van, 
he  was  no  longer  the  thoughtless  boy.  They  were 
husband  and  wife.  The  laughter,  the  jests,  the 
quips,  and  the  taunts  of  their  merry  friends  were  a 
jangle  of  discordant  sounds,  unpleasant  and  untime- 
ly, and  kindly  as  they  were  meant,  unkind.  There 
were  aimless  hand-shakings,  palsied  kisses,  inane 
responses  to  crude  congratulations,  and  it  was  all 
over.  The  guests  departed,  singing,  shouting,  and 
laughing.  The  last  to  leave  was  old  Mrs.  Crane, 
Justine's  companion  for  four  long  years.  She  was 
going  to  live  with  her  brother  up  near  the  village. 
Jud  and  Justine  were  to  live  alone. 

Down  at  the  toll-gate,  nearly  a  mile  from  Jus- 
tine's home  in  the  direction  of  the  village,  a  small 
and  select  company  of  loungers  spent  that  evening. 
The  toll-gate,  kept  by  Jim  Hardesty  and  his  wife, 
Matilda,  was  at  the  junction  of  the  big  gravel  pike 
which  led  to  the  county  seat  and  the  slim,  shady  lane 
that  passed  Justine's  cottage.  Here  of  evenings  the 
"hired  hands"  of  the  neighborhood  gathered  to 


"LET  NOT  MAN  PUT  ASUNDER"  211 

gossip,  tell  lies,  and  "talk  ugly"  about  the  farmers 
by  whom  they  were  employed.  On  the  night  of 
the  wedding  there  were  five  or  six  slouchy,  sweat- 
smelling  rustics  lounging  on  the  porch.  The  wed- 
ding formed  the  only  topic  of  conversation. 

They  talked  of  Justine's  good  looks  and  how 
"they'd  liked  to  be  in  Jud's  boots" ;  and  of  the  days 
when  old  "Cap"  Van  lived  and  the  bride  of  the 
night  had  not  had  to  teach  school ;  of  the  days  when 
she  rode  horses  of  her  own,  and  went  to  the  city  to 
make  purchases  instead  of  to  the  humble  village 
as  now;  they  talked  of  her  kindly  in  their  rough 
way.  They  discussed  Jud  with  enthusiasm.  Every- 
body liked  him.  His  two  years  at  college  had  not 
"swelled  his  head."  He  was  "jest  the  feller  fer 
Justine  Van,  an'  she  got  him,  too,  'g'inst  ever'  girl 
in  the  township — an'  ever'  one  of  'em  had  set  their 
caps  fer  him,  too,  you  bet."  The  loungers  agreed 
it  was  "too  bad  that  Jud  and  Justine  was  so  derned 
pore,  but  mebbe  they'd  make  out  somehow  er 
Mother." 

They  laughed  about  'Gene  Crawley's  affection 
for  Justine  Van. 

'Gene  Crawley!  A  "hand"  over  at  Martin 
Grimes'  place — a  plain,  every-day  hired  man,  work- 
ing for  eighteen  dollars  a  month  for  the  meanest, 
stingiest  farmer  in  Clay  Township!  He  was  not 


22  THE   SHERRODS 

any  better  than  the  rest  of  the  hands  on  the  place, 
"'s  fer  as  learnin'  an'  manners  wuz  concerned. 
Hadn't  no  more  license  to  be  skylarkin'  'round  after 
Justine  Van  'n  he  had  after  Queen  Willimeny.  'S 
if  she'd  notice  sech  a  derned  cuss  as  him;  allus 
cussin'  an'  drinkin'  an'  fightin'.  No  'spectabull  girl 
would  want  to  be  saw  with  him." 

About  nine  o'clock  a  dark  figure  approached  the 
toll-gate  afoot.  It  was  a  man,  and  he  came  from 
the  night  somewhere  to  the  east,  probably  from  the 
village  of  Glenville.  There  was  no  mistaking  his 
identity.  The  heavy,  swift  tread  told  the  watchers 
that  it  was  'Gene  Crawley  long  before  he  came 
within  the  radius  of  light  that  shot  through  the 
open  doorway.  Someone  in  the  crowd  called  out: 

"H'  are  ye,  'Gene !  Thought  you'd  be  up  to  the 
weddin'."  ' 

'Gene  did  not  reply.  He  strode  up  to  the  porch 
and  threw  himself  into  a  vacant  chair  near  the 
window.  The  light  from  within  shone  fairly  upon 
his  dark,  sullen  face,  his  scowling  brow,  and  his 
flushed,  unshaven  cheeks.  An  ugly  gleam  was  in 
his  black  eyes.  He  had  been  drinking,  but  he  was 
not  intoxicated.  His  hickory  shirt,  dirty  and  al- 
most buttonless,  was  open  at  the  throat  as  if  it  had 
been  torn  that  its  wearer  might  save  himself  from 
choking.  He  wore  no  coat,  and  his  faded,  patched 


"LET  NOT  MAN  PUT  ASUNDER"  23 

blue  overalls  were  pushed  into  the  tops  of  his  heavy 
boots.  An  old  straw  hat  lay  where  he  had  cast  it 
behind  his  chair.  The  black,  coarse  hair,  rumpled 
and  unkempt,  grew  low  on  his  scowling  forehead. 
His  face  was  hard  and  deeply  marked,  not  unlike 
that  of  an  Indian.  The  jaw  was  firm,  the  chin 
square  and  defiant,  the  mouth  broad  and  cruel,  the 
nose  large  and  straight,  the  eyes  coal-black  and  set 
far  apart,  beneath  heavy  brows.  The  arm  which 
rested  on  the  sill  was  bare  to  the  elbow;  it  was 
rugged,  with  cords  of  muscle  that  looked  like  ropes 
interlaced.  A  glimpse  of  the  arm  revealed,  as  if 
he  stood  stark  naked,  the  strength  of  this  young 
Samson.  He  was  a  huge,  unwieldy  man,  a  lit- 
tle above  medium  height;  he  might  have  weighed 
one  hundred  and  seventy  pounds;  but  with  his 
square  shoulders,  broad  chest,  and  an  unusually 
erect  carriage  for  an  overworked  farm-boy,  he 
looked  larger  than  he  really  was. 

"You  ain't  got  your  Sunday-go-to-meetin'  close 
on,  'Gene,"  commented  Jim  Hardesty,  tilting  back 
in  his  chair  and  spitting  tobacco  juice  half  way 
across  the  road. 

"Didn'  y'   git  a  bid  to  the  weddin'?"   asked/ 
Harve  Crose,  with  mock  sympathy. 

A  flush  of  anger  and  humiliation  reddened  the 
face  of  Grimes'  hired  man,  but  it  was  gone  in  a 
second. 


24  THE   SHERRODS 

"No;  I  didn'  git  no  bid,"  he  answered,  a  trifle 
hoarsely.  "Guess  they  didn'  want  me.  I  ain't 
good  'nough,  'pears  like." 

"Seems  to  me  she'd  orter  ast  you,  'Gene.  You 
be'n  kinder  hangin'  'round  an'  teasin'  her  to  have 
you,  an'  seems  no  more'n  right  fer  her  to  have  give 
you  a  bid  to  the  weddin',"  said  Doc  Ramsey,  mean- 
ingly. "She'd  orter  done  that,  jest  to  show  you 
why  she  wouldn'  have  you,  don't  y'  see?" 

Crawley's  only  reply  was  a  baleful  glare. 

"How  does  it  feel  to  be  cut  out  by  another  fel- 
ler, 'Gene?"  asked  Crose  tauntingly. 

"I'd  never  let  a  feller  like  Jud  Sherrod  beat  my 
time,"  added  Joe  Perkins. 

"Course,  Jud's  been  to  college  and  learned  how 
to  spoon  with  the  girls,  so  I  guess  it's  no  wonder 
he  ketched  Justine.  She's  Jest  like  all  girls,  I 
reckon.  Smooth  cuss  kin  ketch  'em  all,  b'gosh. 
Never  seed  it  fail  yit.  Trouble  with  you,  'Gene,  is 
'at  you — " 

'Gene  sprang  to  his  feet  with  an  oath  so  ugly 
that  the  jesters  shrank  back.  For  several  minutes 
he  tramped  up  and  down  the  porch  like  a  caged 
animal,  cursing  hoarsely  to  himself,  his  broad 
shoulders  hunched  forward  as  if  he  were  bent  on 
crushing  everything  before  them.  Finally  he  came 
to  a  standstill  in  front  of  the  expectant  crowd. 
The  devil  was  in  his  face. 


"LET  NOT  MAN  PUT  ASUNDER"  25 

"Don't  none  o'  you  fellers  ever  say  anything 
more  to  me  about  this.  Ef  you  do  I'll  break  some- 
body's neck.  It's  none  o'  your  business  how  I  feel, 
an'  I  won't  have  no  more  of  it.  Do  y'  hear  me?" 
he  snarled. 

"I  on'y  ast  fer  information — "  began  Crose, 
apologetically. 

"Well,  I'll  give  you  some,  dang  ye!  You  say 
I'm  cut  out,  eh!  Mebbe  I  am — mebbe  I  am! 
But  you'll  see — you'll  see!  I'll  make  him  sorry 
fer  it!  He's  whupped  me  this  time,  but  I'll  win 
yet!  D'y'hear?  I'll  win  yet!" 

His  face  was  almost  white  under  the  coat  of  tan, 
his  eyes  glowed,  his  voice  was  low  and  intense.  The 
loungers  waited  in  suspense. 

"He  thinks  he's  won!  But  I'll  show  him — I'll 
show  him !  She's  like  all  women !  She  kin  be  won 
ag'in — she  kin  love  more'n  once !  You  say  he's  cut 
me  out !  Mebbe  he  has — mebbe  he  has !  But  this 
ain't  a  marker  to  the  way  I'll  cut  him  out. 
I'll  take  her  away  from  him,  I  will,  so  he'p 
me  God!  D'  y'  hear  that?  She'll  shake  him 
fer  me  some  day,  sure  's  there's  a  hell,  an' 
then!  Then  where'll  he  be?  She'll  be  mine! 
Fair  'r  foul,  I'll  have  her!  I  won't  give  up 
tell  I  take  her  'way  from  him!  An'  she'll  come, 
too;  she'll  come!  She'll  leave  him,  jest  like 


26  THE   SHERRODS 

other  women  have  done,  an'  then  who'll  be  cut  out  ? 
Answer,  damn  ye !  Who'll  be  cut  out?" 

He  was  facing  them  and  his  lips  were  almost  as 
white  as  the  gleaming  teeth  beneath  them.  For  a| 
moment  no  one  dared  to  reply.  At  last  Doc  Ram- 
sey scrambled  to  his  feet. 

"Consarn  ye,  'Gene  Crawley!"  he  exclaimed. 
"You  cain't  stan'  up  there  an'  say  that  'bout  Justine 
Van !  She's  a  good  girl,  an'  you're  a  dern  hound 
fer  talkin'  like  thet!  They  ain't  a  bad  drop  o' 
blood  in  her  body — they  ain't  a  wrong  thought  in 
her  head,  an'  you  know  it.  You  kin  lick  me,  I 
know,  but  dern  ef  you  kin  say  them  things  to  me. 
She  won't  look  at  you  no  more'n  she'd  look  at  that 
dog  o'  Jim's  over  yander." 

'Gene  Crawley's  arm  struck  out  and  Doc  Ram- 
sey crashed  to  the  floor  of  the  porch.  He  lay  mo- 
tionless for  a  long  time.  The  dealer  of  the  blow 
stood  over  him  like  a  wild  beast  waiting  for  its  prey 
to  move.  Not  another  man  in  the  group  lifted  a 
hand  against  him. 

At  last  he  stooped  and  picked  up  his  hat. 

"That's  what  you'll  all  git  ef  you  open  your 
heads,"  he  grated.  "What  I  said  about  her  goes  I" 

He  fixed  his  hat  roughly  on  his  head  and  swung 
away  in  the  darkness. 

In  the  open  door  of  the  cottage  down  the  lane 


"LET  NOT  MAN  PUT  ASUNDER"  27 

Jud  and  Justine  stood  side  by  side,  her  hand  in  his, 
long  after  the  last  guest  had  departed.  It  was  near 
midnight  and  behind  them  the  lamps  flickered  and 
sputtered  with  the  last  gasps  of  waning  life.  Sil- 
houetted in  the  long,  bright  frame  of  the  doorway, 
the  silent  lovers  presented  a  picture  of  a  new  life 
begun,  youth  on  the  threshold  of  a  new  world. 

His  arm  drew  her  to  his  breast  and  her  fluttering 
hands  went  slowly,  gently  to  his  cheeks.  He  bent 
and  kissed  the  upturned  lips. 

Then  the  door  closed  and  the  picture  was  gone. 

Across  the  road,  beside  the  great  oak  that  sent 
its  branches  almost  to  the  little  gateway,  a  man  fell 
away  from  the  fence,  upon  which,  with  murder  in 
his  heart,  he  had  been  leaning.  His  hands  were 
clasped  to  his  eyes,  his  strong  figure  writhed  con- 
vulsively in  the  damp  grass ;  his  breath  came  almost 
in  sobs.  At  last,  taking  his  hands  from  his  hot 
eyes,  he  raised  his  head  and  looked  again  toward 
the  cottage.  One  by  one  the  bright  windows  grew 
dark,  until  at  last  the  house  was  as  black  as  the  night 
about  it.  Then  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  clutching 
blindly  at  the  darkness,  uttering  inarticulate  moans 
and  curses.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  knew 
a  sense  of  loneliness  and  despair. 

He  turned  his  back  to  the  cottage  and  fled  across 
the  meadow". 


CHAPTER  III. 

JUD  AND  JUSTINE. 

DUDLEY  SHERROD  was  the  only  son  of 
John  Sherrod,  who  had  died  about  four 
years  before  the  marriage.  Up  to  the 
day  of  his  death  he  was  considered  the  wealthiest 
farmer  in  Clay  Township.  On  that  day  he  was  a 
pauper;  his  lands  were  no  longer  his  own;  his  wife 
and  his  son  were  penniless.  In  an  upstairs  room  of 
the  great  old  farmhouse,  built  by  his  grandfather 
when  the  country  was  new,  he  blew  out  his  brains, 
unable  to  face  the  ruin  that  fate  had  brought  to  his 
door. 

His  father  had  been  a  member  of  the  Legisla- 
ture, and  the  boy  had  spent  two  years  in  the  city, 
attending  a  medical  college.  When  the  diploma 
came  he  went  back  to  die  old  home  and  hung  out 
his  shingle  in  quaint  little  Glenville.  In  less  than 
a  year  he  brought  a  bride  to  the  farm — Cora 
Bloodgood,  the  daughter  of  a  banker  in  the  capital 
city  of  his  State.  Before  the  end  of  another  year 
he  was,  as  heir,  owner  of  all  his  father's  acres.  So 
it  was  that  John  and  Cora  Sherrod  began  life  rich 
and  happy.  Their  boy  was  born,  grew  up  a  bright 


JUD    AND   JUSTINE  29 

and  sprightly  lad,  and  was  sent  to  college.  From 
the  rude  country  schoolhouse  and  its  simple  teach- 
ings he  was  sent  to  the  busy  university,  among  city 
boys  and  city  girls,  miserable  in  ungainly  self-con- 
sciousness, altogether  out  of  place.  He  left  behind 
him  the  country  lads  and  lasses,  the  tow-heads  and 
the  barefoots,  and  his  heart  was  sore.  But  in  the 
beginning  of  his  second  year  the  simplicity  of  his 
rural  heart  showed  signs  of  giving  way  to  urban 
improvements.  His  strength  won  for  him  a  place 
on  the  football  team,  and  the  sense  of  dignity  of 
this  position  displaced  his  self-consciousness  and 
taught  him  to  be  interested  in  the  world  beyond  his 
home.  He  began  to  know  something  besides  the 
memory  of  green  fields  and  meadows  and  clear  blue 
skies. 

All  these  months  he  was  faithful  to  a  slip  of  a 
girl  down  in  the  country  to  whom  he  had  feared  to 
utter  a  word  of  love.  She  knew  she  loved  him 
because  she  had  cried  when  he  went  away  and  had 
cried  when  he  came  back.  Letters,  stiff  and  pain- 
fully correct  as  to  spelling  and  chirography,  came 
each  week  from  dear  little  Justine  Van.  To  her 
his  long  letters,  homesickness  crowding  between  the 
lines,  although  she  could  not  see  it,  were  like  mes- 
sages from  paradise.  A  dozen  times  a  day  she  read 
each  letter  as  she  sat  in  her  room,  or  in  the  hated 


30  THE   SHERRODS 

schoolroom  at  Glenville,  or  in  the  shady  orchard, 
or  in  the  lonely  lane.  She  longed  to  have  him  back 
at  home,  to  hear  his  merry  laugh,  to  romp  with  him 
as  they  had  romped  before  he  went  away  to  school 
— but  here  she  blushed  and  remembered  that  he 
was  tall  now,  and  dreadfully  old  and  grand,  and  she 
was — she  was  fifteen !  Jud  thrashed  a  fellow  stu- 
dent one  day  because  he  poked  fun  at  an  old  tin- 
type of  Justine  that  he  happened  to  see  in  the  boy's 
room.  The  victim  had  laughed  at  the  green  bon- 
net, the  long  pig-tails,  and  the  wide  eyes  of  the  girl 
in  the  picture — "just  as  if  they  were  looking  for 
the  photographer's  bird,  you  know." 

Near  the  middle  of  his  second  year  at  college 
the  crash  came  and  the  half-dazed  boy  hurried 
home.  His  father  was  dead  and  the  whole  country 
was  telling  the  stories  of  his  great  financial  losses. 
Every  dollar,  every  foot  of  land  had  been  swept 
away  by  reverses  arising  from  investments  in  Ari- 
zona mines.  Captain  James  Van  went  down  in  the 
same  disaster.  When  word  reached  his  home  of 
the  suicide  of  John  Sherrod,  he  was  on  his  way  to 
the  barn  with  a  pistol  hidden  over  his  heart.  Hor- 
ror and  the  awakening  of  courage  made  him  cast 
the  pistol  aside  and  turn  to  face  the  blow  as  a  brave 
man  should,  with  his  wife  and  child  behind  his 
back. 


JUD    AND   JUSTINE  31 

Jud  and  Justine  could  not  at  first,  and  did  not 
for  many  days,  realize  the  force  of  the  blow.  One 
had  lost  father  as  well  as  home ;  the  other  had  lost 
home  and  had  sunk  to  a  depth  of  poverty  that  grew 
more  a«nd  more  appalling  as  her  young  mind  began 
to  understand.  The  boy,  when  he  finally  grasped 
the  situation,  bared  his  arms  and  set  forth  to  sup- 
port himself  and  his  mother  by  hard  work.  The 
shock  of  the  suicide  was  too  great  for  Mrs.  Sher- 
rod.  Her  reason  fled  soon  after  her  husband  was 
laid  in  the  grave,  but  it  was  a  year  before  death 
took  her  to  him.  During  that  last  year  of  life  she 
lived  in  the  old  place,  a  helpless  invalid,  mentally 
and  physically,  although  the  property  belonged  to 
another.  David  Strong  held  a  mortgage  on  the 
home  place,  but  he  did  not  foreclose  it  until  she 
was  gone. 

For  a  year  Jud  cared  for  his  mother,  and  worked 
in  the  fields  with  David  Strong's  men  at  wages  of 
twelve  dollars  a  month.  Half  of  the  year's  crop 
Strong  gave  to  the  widow  of  John  Sherrod,  al- 
though not  a  penny's  worth  of  it  was  hers  by  right. 
After  her  death  Strong  and  his  family  moved  into 
the  big  old  house,  and  Jud  Sherrod  lived  in  a  room 
in  what  had  been  his  home. 

Justine  Van's  grandmother,  in  her  will,  left  to 
the  girl  a  thirty-acre  piece  of  ground,  half  timber, 


32  THE   SHERRODS 

half  cultivated,  about  a  mile  from  the  white  house 
in  which  the  beneficiary  was  born  and  which  was 
swallowed  up  by  the  great  disaster.  Bereft  of 
every  penny,  James  Van  took  his  wife  and  daughter 
to  the  miserable  little  cottage.  The  girl  shouldered 
as  much  of  the  burden  of  poverty  as  her  young  and 
tender  shoulders  could  carry.  She  begged  for  an 
appointment  as  teacher  in  the  humble  schoolhouse 
where  her  a-b-abs  had  been  learned,  and  for  two 
years  and  a  half  before  her  marriage  she  had 
taught  the  little  flock  of  boys  and  girls.  Especially 
necessary  did  this  means  of  earning  a  livelihood 
become  when,  two  years  after  the  failure,  her  father 
died.  Then  Mrs.  Van  followed  him,  and  Justine, 
not  nineteen,  was  face  to  face  with  the  world,  a 
trembling,  guileless  child. 

Her  wages  at  the  schoolhouse  were  twenty-five 
dollars  a  month,  for  six  months  in  a  year,  and  the 
field  of  grain  from  her  poorly  tilled  farm  was 
barely  enough  to  pay  the  taxes  and  the  help  hire. 
Old  Jim  Hardesty  farmed  the  place  for  her,  and 
he  robbed  her.  For  six  months  after  the  mother's 
death  she  lived  alone  in  the  cottage,  and  then  the 
neighbors  finally  taking  the  matter  in  hand  and  in- 
sisting that  she  be  provided  with  a  companion,  her 
old  nurse,  Mrs.  Crane,  came  to  the  place.  She  was 
shrewd  from  years  of  Adversity  and  persuaded  Jus- 


JUD   AND    JUSTINE  33 

tine  to  send  Jim  Hardesty  packing — and  that  was 
the  hardest  duty  Justine  had  ever  had  to  meet. 

The  discouraged  boy,  over  on  David  Strong's 
place,  worn  thin  with  hard  work  and  sickness,  de- 
prived of  every  chance,  as  he  thought,  to  realize 
his  ambitions,  found  in  the  girl  a  sympathetic  com- 
rade. Of  all  the  people  in  his  world  she  was  the 
only  one  who  understood  his  desires,  and  could,  in 
a  way,  share  with  him  the  despair  that  made  life 
as  he  lived  it  seem  like  a  narrow  cell  from  which 
he  could  look  longingly  with  no  hope  of  escape. 
Tired  and  sore  from  misfortune,  these  two  simple, 
loving  natures  turned  to  each  other.  His  first 
trembling  kiss  upon  her  surprised,  parted  lips  was 
a  treasure  that  never  left  her  memory.  The  bloom 
came  to  her  cheeks,  lightness  touched  her  flagging 
heart,  happiness  shone  through  the  gloom,  and  the 
whole  countryside  marveled  at  her  growing  beauty. 
This  slim,  budding  maid  of  the  meadow  and  wood 
was  as  fair  a  bit  as  nature  ever  perfected.  The 
sweetness  and  purity  of  womanhood  undefiled  dwelt 
in  her  body  and  soul.  No  taint  of  worldliness  had 
blighted  her.  She  was  a  pure,  simple,  country  girl, 
ignorant  of  wile,  sinless  and  trustful. 

Justine  was  like  her  father,  fair  faced  and 
straight  of  form.  Her  hair  was  long  and  reddish- 
brown,  her  brow  was  broad  and  full,  her  eyes  big 


34  THE   SHERRODS 

and  brown  and  soft  with  love,  her  cheeks  smooth 
and  clear.  A  trifle  above  the  medium  height, 
straight  and  strong,  of  slender  mold,  she  was  as 
graceful  as  a  gazelle.  Health  seemed  to  glow  in 
the  atmosphere  about  her. 

With  Jud,  too,  the  realization  of  love  and  the 
feeling  that  there  was  something  to  live  for, 
brought  a  change.  His  stooping  shoulders  straight- 
ened, his  eyes  brightened,  his  steps  became  springy. 
He  whistled  and  sang  at  his  work,  took  an  interest 
in  life,  and  presently  even  resumed  nis  drawing. 
The  country  folk  winked  knowingly.  The  two 
were  constantly  together  when  opportunity  af- 
forded, so  it  soon  became  common  report  that  he 
was  her  "feller,  fer  sure,"  and  she  was  his  "girl." 

One  evening,  as  they  sat  in  the  dusk  down  by  the 
creek,  which  ran  through  her  bit  of  pasture  land, 
Jud  drew  his  mother's  plain  gold  ring  from  his  little 
finger  and  slipped  it  upon  Justine's  third.  They 
were  betrothed. 

Never  were  such  sweethearts  as  Jud  and  Justine. 
They  were  lovers,  friends,  comrades.  Her  sweet, 
serious  face  took  a  new  life,  new  color  at  his  ap- 
proach, her  dreamy  eyes  grew  softer  and  more 
wistful,  her  low  voice  more  musical.  Her  soul  was 
his,  her  life  belonged  to  him,  her  heart  beat  only 
for  him.  Jud's  famished  hopes  of  something  be- 


JUD    AND    JUSTINE  35, 

yond  the  farm  found  fresh  encouragement  in  her 
simple,  wondering  praise.  She  was  his  critic,  his 
unconscious  mentor.  Beneath  her  untrained  eye 
he  sketched  as  he  never  sketched  before.  Looking 
over  his  shoulder  as  he  lay  stretched  upon  the 
grass,  she  marveled  at  the  skill  with  which  his 
pencil  transferred  the  world  about  them  to  the 
dearly  bought  drawing  pads,  and  her  enthusiastic 
little  cries  of  delight  were  tributes  that  brought  con- 
fidence to  the  heart  of  the  artist. 

The  girl  had  scores  of  admirers.  Every  boy, 
every  man  in  the  township  longed  to  "make  up"  to 
her,  but  she  gave  no  thought  to  them.  Half  a 
dozen  widowers  with  children  asked  her  to  marry 
them.  She  and  Jud  laughed  when  Eversole  Baker 
besought  her  to  become  mother  to  his  nine  children, 
including  two  daughters  older  than  herself. 

But  there  was  one  determined  suitor,  and  she 
feared  him  with  an  uncanny  dread  that  knew  no 
rest  until  she  was  safely  Jud's  on  the  wedding  night. 
That  one  was  Eugene  Crawley,  drunkard  and  blas- 
phemer. 

Crawley  was  born  in  the  dense  timber  land  north 
of  Glenville.  His  father  had  been  a  woodchopper, 
hunter,  and  fisherman.  Hard  stories  came  down 
to  town  about  Sam  Crawley.  Of  'Gene,  the  boy, 
nothing  against  his  honesty  at  least  could  be  said. 


36  THE   SHERRODS 

He  was  a  vile  wretch  when  drinking,  little  better 
when  sober,  but  he  was  as  honest  as  the  sun. 

He  had  gone  to  school  with  Jud  and  Justine 
when  they  were  little  "tads,"  and  his  rough  affec- 
tion for  her  began  when  they  were  mastering  the 
"first  reader."  He  and  Jud  had  fought  over  her 
twice  and  each  had  been  a  victor.  The  girl  despised 
him,  from  childhood,  and  he  knew  it.  Still,  he 
clung  to  the  hope  that  he  could  take  her  away  from 
his  rival.  He  dogged  her  footsteps,  frightened  her 
with  his  mad  protestations,  and  finally  alarmed  her 
by  his  threats.  The  day  before  the  wedding  he  had 
met  her  as  she  left  the  schoolhouse  and  had  sworn 
to  kill  Jud  Sherrod.  She  did  not  tell  Jud  of  this, 
nor  did  she  tell  him  that  she  had  pleaded  with 
Crawley  to  spare  her  lover's  life.  Had  she  told 
Jud  all  this  she  would  have  been  obliged  to  tell  him 
how  the  brute  had  suddenly  burst  into  tears  and 
promised  he  would  not  harm  Jud  if  he  could  help  it. 


CHAPTER  IV. 
MRS.  HARDESTY'S  CHARITY. 

FOR  many  days  after  their  marriage  Jud  and 
Justine  were  obliged  to  endure  coarse  jokes, 
kindly  meant  if  out  of  tune  with  their 
sensitive  minds.  Happy  weeks  sped  by,  weeks 
replete  with  the  fullness  of  joy  known  only  to 
the  newly  wedded.  Days  of  toil,  that  had  once 
been  long  and  irksome,  now  were  flitting  seasons 
of  anticipation  between  real  joys.  At  dusk  he 
came  home  with  eyes  glowing  in  the  delight  that 
knows  no  fatigue,  with  a  heart  leaping  with  the 
love  that  is  young  and  eager,  and  blood  carousing 
under  the  intoxication  of  passion's  wine.  In  the 
kitchen  door  of  the  little  cot,  no  longer  dismal  in 
its  weather-worn  plainness,  there  always  stood  the 
slim,  supple  girl,  her  heart  leaping  with  the  eager- 
ness to  be  clasped  in  his  arms.  She  was  growing 
into  perfect  womanhood,  perfect  in  figure,  perfect 
in  love,  perfect  in  all  its  mysteries.  Her  whole 
life  before  now  appeared  as  a  dreamless  sleep  to 
her;  the  present  was  the  beginning  of  a  divine 
dream  that  softens  the  rest  of  life  into  mellow  for- 
getfulness. 


38  THE   SHERRODS 

She  walked  with  him  in  the  hayfield,  from  choice, 
delighted  to  toil  near  him,  to  breathe  the  same  air, 
to  endure  the  same  sun,  to  enjoy  the  same  moments 
of  rest  beneath  the  great  oaks,  to  drink  from  the 
same  brown  jug  of  spring  water,  to  sing,  to  laugh, 
to  play  with  him.  It  was  not  work.  Then  came 
the  harvesting,  the  thrashing,  and  the  fall  sowing. 
Six  months  were  soon  gone  and  still  these  children 
played  like  cupids.  Other  married  people  in  the 
neighborhood,  whose  honeymoons  had  not  been 
more  than  a  week  old  before  they  began  to  show 
callous  spots,  wondered  dumbly  at  the  beautiful 
girl  who  grew  prettier  and  straighter  instead  of 
turning  sour,  frowsy,  and  bent  under  the  rigors  of 
connubial  joy — as  they  had  found  it.  They  could 
not  understand  how  the  husband  could  be  so  blithe 
and  cheery,  so  upstanding  and  strong,  and  so  de- 
voted. The  wives  of  the  neighborhood  pondered 
over  the  latter  condition.  The  husbands  did  not 
deem  it  worth  while  or  expedient  to  wonder — they 
merely  called  Jud  a  "dinged  shif'less  boy  that'll 
wake  up  some  time  er  'nother  an'  understan'  more 
'n  he  does  now."  Yet  they  had  to  admit  that  Jud 
was  conducting  the  little  farm  faultlessly,  even 
though  he  did  find  time  to  moon  with  his  wife,  to 
bask  in  the  sunshine  of  her  love,  to  wander  over 


MRS.    HARDESTY'S    CHARITY  39 

wood  and  field  with  her  beside  him,  sketching, 
sketching,  eternally  sketching. 

Rainy  days  and  Sundays  brought  hours  of  sweet 
communion  to  the  happy,  simple  young  couple.  So 
thoroughly  were  they  devoted  to  one  another  that 
their  lack  of  attention  to  the  neighbors  was  the 
source  of  more  or  less  indignation  on  the  part  of 
those  who  "knowed  that  Jud  and  her  hadn't  no 
right  to  be  so  infernal  stuck-up."  And  yet  these 
same  discontents  were  won  over  in  the  briefest  con- 
versation with  the  pair  when  they  chanced  to  meet. 
Even  the  most  snappish  and  envious  were  overcome 
by  the  gentle  good  humor,  the  proud  simplicity  of 
these  young  sweethearts,  who  saw  no  ugliness,  who 
knew  no  bitterness,  who  found  life  and  its  hard- 
ships no  struggle  at  all. 

They  were  desperately  poor,  but  they  made  no 
complaint.  The  vigor  of  life  was  theirs,  and  they 
sang  as  they  suffered,  looking  forward  with  bright, 
confident  eyes  to  the  East  of  their  dreams,  in  which 
their  sun  of  fortune  was  to  rise. 

Justine  was  to  have  the  school  another  year,  be- 
ginning in  October,  after  a  six-months'  vacation. 
Jud's  pride  revolted  at  first  against  this  decision  of 
hers,  but  she  overcame  every  argument,  and  he 
loved  her  more  than  ever  for  the  share  she  was 
taking  in  the  dull  battle  against  poverty.  The 


40  THE   SHERRODS 

land  he  tilled  was  not  fertile;  it  had  been  over- 
worked for  years.  The  crops  were  growing  thin- 
ner; the  timber  was  slowly  falling  beneath  the 
stove-wood  ax ;  the  meadow  plot  was  almost  barren 
of  grass.  It  was  not  a  productive  "thirty,"  and 
they  knew  it.  There  was  a  bare  existence  in  it 
when  crops  were  good,  but  there  was,  as  yet,  no 
mortgage  to  face.  Jud  owned  a  team  of  horses, 
and  Justine  two  cows  and  a  dozen  hogs.  They  had 
no  other  vehicle  than  a  farm  wagon,  old  and  rat- 
tling. When  they  went  to  the  village  it  was  in 
this  wagon ;  when  to  church,  they  walked,  although 
the  distance  was  two  miles,  so  tender  was  their 
pride. 

Little  Justine  was  the  politic  one.  Jud  was 
proud,  and  was  ever  ready  to  resent  the  kindly 
offices  of  neighbors.  Had  it  been  left  to  him, 
young  Henry  Bossman  would  have  been  summarily 
dismissed  when  he  offered  to  help  Jud  stack  the 
hay,  "jes'  fer  ole  times'  sake."  It  was  Justine  who 
welcomed  poor,  awkward  Henry,  and  it  was  she 
who  sent  him  'away  rejoicing  over  a  good  deed, 
determined  to  help  "Jud  and  Justine  ever'  time  he 
had  a  chanst." 

It  was  she  who  accepted  the  proffer  to  thrash 
their  thirty  acres  of  wheat,  free  of  charge,  from 
David  Strong^  stopping  off  one  day  as  his  separator 


MRS.    HARDESTY'S    CHARITY  41 

and  engine  passed  by.  She  thanked  him  so  gra- 
ciously that  he  went  his  way  wondering  whether 
he  was  indebted  to  them  or  they  to  him.  When 
Harve  Crose  offered  to  get  their  mail  at  the  cross- 
roads  post-office  every  day  and  leave  it  at  the 
cottage  gate  as  he  rode  by,  she  thanked  him  so 
beautifully  that  he  felt  as  though  she  ought  to  scold 
him  when  he  was  late  on  rare  occasions.  Doc 
Ramsey,  the  man  who  was  knocked  down  by  'Gene 
Crawley  at  the  toll-gate  one  night,  helped  Jud  build 
a  rail  fence  over  half  a  mile  long,  and  said  he 
"guessed  he'd  call  it  square  if  Jud  'd  give  him  that 
picter  he  drawed  of  Justine  summer  'fore  las'. 
Kinder  like  to  have  that  picter,  'y  ginger;  skeer 
the  rats  away  with,"  ending  with  a  roar  of  apolo- 
getic laughter  at  his  homely  excuse. 

'Gene  Crawley  was  never  to  be  seen  in  the  little 
lane.  Sullen  and  savage,  he  frequented  the  toll- 
gate,  but  not  so  much  as  formerly.  He  drank 
more  than  ever,  and  it  was  said  that  Martin  Grimes 
had  taken  him  out  of  jail  twice  at  the  county  seat, 
both  times  on  a  charge  of  "drunk  and  disorderly 
conduct."  It  seemed  that  he  avoided  all  possible 
chance  of  meeting  Jud  and  his  wife.  Curious  peo- 
ple speculated  on  the  outcome  of  his  increasing 
moroseness,  and  not  a  few  saw  something  tragic  in 
the  scowl  that  seldom  left  his  swarthy  brow. 


42  THE   SHERRODS 

For  many  weeks  after  her  marriage  Justine 
dreamed  of  the  fierce  eyes  and  the  desperate  threats 
of  this  lover,  and  the  only  bar  to  complete  happi- 
ness was  the  fear  that  'Gene  Crawley  would  some 
day  wreak  vengeance  upon  her  husband.  As  the 
weeks  wore  away,  this  fear  dwindled,  until  now  she 
felt  secure  in  the  hope  that  he  had  forgotten  her. 
And  yet,  when  his  name  was  mentioned  in  her 
presence,  she  could  not  restrain  the  sudden  leaping 
of  her  heart  or  the  troubled  look  that  widened  her 
tender  brown  eyes.  When  Jud  bitterly  alluded  to 
him  and  assured  her,  with  more  or  less  boyish 
braggadocio,  that  he  would  whip  him  if  he  ever  so 
much  as  spoke  to  her  or  him  again,  she  felt  a  dread 
that  seemed  almost  a  presentiment  of  evil.  She  did 
not  fear  Crawley  for  herself,  but  for  Jud. 

'Gene's  boast  before  the  men  at  the  toll-gate 
created  a  sensation  in  the  usually  unruffled  com- 
munity. The  blow  that  fellad  Doc  Ramsey  was 
universally  condemned,  yet  no  man  had  the  courage 
to  take  to  task  the  man  who  delivered  it.  The 
story  of  his  mad  declaration  concerning  Justine 
spread  like  wildfire.  Of  course,  no  one  believed 
that  his  boast  could  be  carried  out,  or  attempted, 
for  that  matter;  but,  as  gossip  traveled,  the  sub- 
stance of  his  vow  increased.  Within  a  week  the 
tale  had  grown  in  vileness  until  Crawley  was 


MRS.    HARDESTY'S    CHARITY.  43 

credited  with  having  given  utterance  to  the  most 
unheard-of  assertions.  Black  and  foul  as  his  actual 
words  had  been,  they  were  tame  and  weak  in  com- 
parison with  the  things  the  honest  farmers  and 
their  wives  convinced  themselves  and  others  that 
he  had  said. 

In  the  course  of  time  the  incident  which  made 
historical  her  wedding  night  reached  the  ears  of 
Justine  Sherrod.  She  had  seen  'Gene  but  two  or 
three  times  in  the  four  months  that  intervened 
between  that  time  and  the  day  on  which  she  heard 
the  wretched  story  from  Mrs.  Hardesty — an 
honest  soul  who  had  heard  'Gene's  words  plainly, 
and  was  therefore  qualified  to  exaggerate  if  she 
saw  fit.  Once  the  girl  passed  him  in  the  lane  near 
the  toll-gate.  He  was  leaning  on  the  fence  at  the 
roadside  as  she  passed.  She  had  seen  him  looking 
at  her  hungrily  as  she  approached,  but  when  she 
lifted  her  eyes  again,  his  broad  back  was  toward 
her  and  he  was  looking  across  the  fields.  There 
was  something  foreboding  in  the  strong  shoulders 
and  corded  brown  arms  that  bore  down  upon  the 
fence  in  an  evident  effort  at  self-control.  She  felt 
the  panic  which  makes  one  wish  to  fly  from  an 
unknown  danger.  Not  daring  to  look  back,  she 
walked  swiftly  by,  possessed  of  the  fear  that  he 
was  following,  that  he  was  ready  to  clutch  her 


44  THE   SHERRODS 

from  behind.  But  he  stood  there  until  she  turned 
into  the  gate  a  half  mile  down  the  lane. 

It  remained  for  Mrs.  Hardesty  to  tell  Justine 
the  story.  The  bony  wife  of  the  toll-gate  keeper 
carried  her  busy  presence  up  to  the  cottage  one 
afternoon  late  in  September,  and  found  the  young 
wife  resting  after  a  hard,  hot  ironing.  Her  pretty 
face  was  warm  and  rosy,  her  strong  arms  were 
bare  to  the  shoulder,  her  full,  deep  breast  was 
heaving  wearily  beneath  the  loose  blue-and-white 
figured  calico.  As  Mrs.  Hardesty  came  up  the 
path  from  the  gate  she  could  not  resist  saying  to 
herself,  as  she  looked  admiringly  but  with  wom- 
anly envy  upon  the  straight  figure  leaning  against 
the  door-casing,  fanning  a  hot  face  with  an  old 
newspaper : 

"I  don'  blame  'Gene  Crawley  er  enny  other  man 
fer  wantin'  to  have  her.  They  ain't  no  one  like 
her  in  the  hull  State,  er  this  country,  either,  fer  that 
matter." 

Justine  greeted  her  cordially. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Hardesty?  Aren't  you 
almost  baked  in  this  sun?  Come  into  the  shade 
and  sit  down.  I'll  get  you  a  dipper  of  water  and 
a  fan." 

"Don't  put  yourself  out  enny — don't  trouble 
yourself  a  bit  now,  Jestine.  Jes'  git  me  a  sup  o' 


MRS.    HARDESTY'S    CHARITY  45 

water  an'  I'll  be  all  hunky-dory.  I  don't  mind 
the  sun  very  much.  My,  I'm  glad  to  set  down  in 
the  shade,  though.  Never  saw  the  roads  so  dusty, 
did  you  ?  Thank  ye,  Jestine — much  obliged.  You 
must  have  a  grand  spring  here  to  git  such  fine 
water.  It's  as  cold,  purt'  nigh,  as  the  ice  water 
you  git  up  to  town.  Set  down,  my  dear;  you  look 
hot  an'  tired.  I  know  you  look  nice  standin'  up 
like  that,  but  you'll  be  a  heap  sight  more  comfort- 
able if  you  set  down  an'  rest  them  tired  legs  o' 
your'n.  Where's  Jed?" 

"He's  gone  over  to  Hawkins's  blacksmith  shop 
on  the  pike  to  have  Randy  shod.  She  cast  two 
shoes  yesterday,"  explained  the  girl,  sitting  on  the 
doorstep.  "Do  you  want  to  see  him  about  any- 
thing in  particular,  Mrs.  Hardesty?  He  said  he'd 
be  home  by  six." 

"No;  I  jes'  ast.  Thought  ef  he  was  aroun'  I'd 
like  to  see  his  good-lookin'  face  fer  a  minnit  er  two. 
I  reckon,  though,  he  don't  look  at  other  women 
.when  you're  aroun',"  tittered  the  visitor,  who  was 
not  a  day  under  sixty. 

"Oh,  yes,  he  does,"  laughed  Justine,  turning  a 
shade  rosier.  "He's  getting  tired  of  seeing  me 
around  all  the  time.  You  see,  I'm  an  old  married 
woman  now." 

"Good  heavens,  child,  wait  tell  you've  been  mar- 


46  THE   SHERRODS 

ried  thirty-nine  years  like  I  have,  an'  then  you  kin 
begin  to  talk  about  gittin'  tired  o'  seein'  certain 
people  all  the  time.  I  know  I  could  see  Jim  Har- 
desty  ef  I  was  as  blind  as  a  bat.  I  kin  almost  tell 
how  menny  hairs  they  is  in  his  whiskers." 

"Well,  how  many,  for  instance?"  asked  Justine 
gaily. 

"Two  hundred  and  ninety-seven,"  answered 
Mrs.  Jim,  promptly  and  positively.  She  regaled 
the  young  wife  with  a  long  and  far  from  original 
dissertation  on  married  life  as  she  had  encountered 
it  with  James.  Finally  she  paused  and  changed 
the  subject  abruptly,  leaping  to  a  question  that  had 
doubtless  been  on  her  mind  for  days. 

"Have  you  saw  much  of  'Gene  Crawley  lately, 
Jestine?"  The  question  was  so  unexpected  that 
the  girl  started,  and  stammered  in  replying. 

"No ;  very  little.  I  don't  believe  I've  seen  him 
more  than  twice  in  several  months.  Is  he  still 
working  for  Martin?" 

"Oh,  yes.  They  was  some  talk  o'  his  goin' 
over  to  Rumley  to  work  in  a  saw-mill,  but  seems 
as  though  he  can't  leave  this  part  o'  the  country." 
After  a  moment's  hesitation,  she  went  on  boldly, 
smiling  with  the  awkwardness  of  one  who  is  deter- 
mined to  learn  something  at  any  cost.  "I  s'posed 
he'd  been  comin'  'roun'  here  quite  a  little." 


MRS.    HARDESTY'S    CHARITY  47 

"Coming  here,  Mrs.  Hardesty?"  cried  the  girl 
in  surprise.  "Why,  he'll  never  come  here.  He 
and  Jud  are  not  friends  and  he  knows  I  don't  like 
him.  Whatever  put  that  into  your  head?" 

"Oh,  I  dunno,"  said  Mrs.  Hardesty  evasively. 
"I  heerd  somethin'  'bout  his  sayin'  he  was  a  great 
frien'  o'  your'n,  so  I  thought,  like  as  not,  he  was — 
er — that  is,  he  might  'a'  drapped  in  onct  in  awhile, 
you  know — jes'  like  fellers  will,  you  know." 

"Well,  you  may  be  sure  'Gene  will  never  come 
here." 

"He  wouldn't  be  welcome,  I  take  it." 

"I  don't  like  to  say  that  anybody  would  not  be 
welcome,  Mrs.  Hardesty.  I  hardly  think  he'd 
care  to  come,"  said  the  girl  nervously. 

"Him  an'  Jed  have  had  some  words,  hain't 
they?  Never  been  friends  sence  they  was  boys, 
I've  heered.  Do  you  think  he's  afeared  o'  Jed?" 

"Why  should  he  be  afraid  of  Jud?  So  long 
as  each  attends  to  his  own  business  there  is  nothing 
to  be  afraid  of.  They're  not  good  friends,  that's 
all." 

"Well,  'Gene's  been  doin'  some  ugly  talkin'," 
said  the  visitor  doggedly. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Justine.  A  strange 
chill  seized  her  heart — a  fear  for  Jud. 

"He's  been  very  unwise  to  say  the  things  he  has. 


48  THE   SHERRODS 

I  tole  Jim  Hardesty  ef  they  ever  got  to  Jed!s  ears 
'Gene  'd  pay  purty  dearly  fer  them.  But  Jim  says 
'twouldn't  be  good  fer  Jed  ef  he  tackled  'Gene. 
He's  wuss'n  pison." 

"Why,  Mrs.  Hardesty,  I  don't — I  don't  know 
what  you're  talking  about,"  cried  the  poor  girl. 
"What  has  'Gene  been  saying?" 

"Oh,  it  wouldn't  be  right  fer  me  to  git  mixed 
up  in  it.  It's  none  o'  my  funeral,"  said  Mrs. 
Hardesty,  now  in  the  full  delight  of  keeping  a 
listener  tortured  with  suspense.  It  was  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  before  she  could  be  induced  to  relate 
the  very  tales  she  had  come  to  tell  in  the  first 
place. 

"  'Gene  tole  the  boys  that  night  that  he'd  made 
love  to  you  ever  sence  you  was  children  and  that 
he  could  tell  Jed  Sherrod  some  things  ef  he  was 
a  mind  to.  He  said  he  could  take  you  away  from 
him  any  time,  an'  that  Jed  'd  have  to  stay  'roun' 
home  purty  close  ef  he  wanted  to  be  sure  o'  you." 

"Oh,  oh,  oh!"  moaned  the  dumfounded  girl. 

"An'  then  he  went  on  to  say  that  you'd  promised 
to — to — well — well,  to  leave  Jed  some  time  an' 
go  away  with  him.  That's  the  mildest  way  to 
put  it.  I  couldn't  say  it  the  way  'Gene  did.  Don't 
look  so  put-out  about  it,  Jestine — really,  you  look 


MRS.    HARDESTY'S    CHARITY  49 

like  you  want  to  faint.  Shell  I  git  you  some 
water?" 

"Did — did  he  say  all  of  that?"  Justine  whis- 
pered hoarsely. 

"Yes,  he  did.  I  heered  him.  I  was  in  the 
house  an' " 

"Mrs.  Hardesty,  don't  tell  me  any  more.  I  can- 
not bear  it.  How  could  he  have  said  it — how 
could  he  have  been  so  mean?"  she  wailed,  strug- 
gling to  her  feet. 

"Of  course,  they  wasn't  any  truth  in  what  'Gene 
said,"  Mrs.  Hardesty  volunteered,  but  the  declara- 
tion bore  distinct  marks  of  a  question.  Justine's 
eyes  blazed,  her  body  trembled,  her  lips  quivered. 
Never  had  any  one  seen  such  a  look  upon  that 
sweet,  gentle  face. 

"No!"  burst  from  her  lips  so  fiercely  that  Mrs. 
Jim's  eyes  wavered  and  fell.  "No!  And  every- 
body knows  it !  How  can  you  ask?" 

"I  didn't  ask — you  know  I  didn't,  Jestine " 

'stammered  the  guest. 

"You  did  ask.  God  forgive  'Gene  Crawley  for 
those  awful  lies — God  forgive  him !  Oh,  Matilda, 
how  could  he — how  could  he  have  said  such  things  ? 
I  never  did  him  any  wrong " 

"Jed  ought  to  kill  him — the  mean  snake!    He 


50  THE   SHERRODS 

ought  to  go  right  over  to  Martin  Grimes's 
an' "  began  Mrs.  Hardesty  excitedly. 

"No,  no!  He  must  not  know!"  cried  Justine, 
with  a  new  terror.  She  clutched  Mrs.  Hardesty 
by  the  shoulders  so  that  the  old  lady  winced.  ujud 
must  never  know!  Don't  you  see  how  it  would 
end  ?  There  would  be  a  murder — a  murder !  Jud 
would  kill  him.  Let  it  be  as  it  is;  I  can  stand  it — 
yes,  I  can!  We  must  keep  it  from  him.  You 
will  help  me,  won't  you  ?  You  will  see  that  nobody 
goes  to  Jud  with  this  awful  story — I  know  you 
will!  Oh,  God!  They  would  fight  and— one  of 
them  would  be  killed.  How  can  we  keep  Jud  from 
hearing?" 

Mrs.  Hardesty  stared  up  at  her,  and  after  a 
moment  laid  a  hand  upon  the  clinging  one  upon 
her  shoulder. 

"You  are  right,"  she  agreed.  "Jed  mus'  never 
be  tole.  Him  an'  'Gene  would  settle  it,  an'  I'm 
afeard  fer  Jed's  sake.  'Gene's  so  vicious  like." 


CHAPTER    V. 

WHEN    THE     CLASH     CAME. 

DESPITE  her  apparent  cheerfulness,  Jud 
could  but  note  the  ever-recurring  look 
of  trouble  in  her  eyes.  Those  wistful 
eyes,  when  they  were  not  merry  with  smiles,  were 
following  him  with  an  anxious  look  like  that  of  a 
faithful  dog.  Sometimes  he  came  upon  her  sud- 
denly and  found  her  staring  into  space.  At  such 
times  he  saw  indignation  in  the  soft  brown  eyes,  or 
wrath,  or  terror.  He  wondered  and  his  soul  was 
troubled.  Was  she  unhappy?  Was  she  tired  of 
him?  He  thought  of  asking  her  to  confide  in  him, 
but  his  simple  heart  could  not  find  courage  to  draw 
forth  the  confession  he  feared  might  hurt  him 
endlessly. 

Early  in  October  she  resumed  her  work  in  the 
schoolhouse.  There  was  not  an  evening  or  a  noon 
that  did  not  see  her  hurrying  home,  dreading  that 
'Gene  and  Jud  had  met.  One  day  when  she  saw 
'Gene  gallop  past  the  schoolhouse,  coming  from 
the  direction  of  the  farm,  she  dismissed  the  school 
early  and  ran  almost  all  the  way  home.  When 
Jud  met  her  near  the  gate  she  was  sobbing  with 


52  THE   SHERRODS 

joy.  He  never  forgot  the  kisses  she  burnt  upon 
his  lips. 

How  she  loathed  and  feared  'Gene  Crawley! 
She  had  dismal  nightmares  in  which  he  was  stran- 
gling her  husband.  In  her  waking  hours  she 
dreamed  of  the  dreadful  boast  he  had  made.  One 
night  she  was  startled  by  the  fear  that  people  might 
believe  the  words  the  wretch  had  uttered. 

One  Friday  evening  they  were  coming  home 
across  the  meadow  from  the  Bossman  farm.  The 
sun  was  almost  below  the  ridge  of  trees  in  the 
west  and  long  shadows  darkened  the  edges  of  the 
pasture  land.  The  evening  was  cool  and  bright, 
and  they  were  as  happy  as  children.  Reaching 
the  little  creek  which  ran  through  a  corner  of  Jus- 
tine's land,  not  far  from  the  house,  they  sat  down 
to  watch  the  antics  of  two  sportive  calves.  Peace 
was  in  their  hearts,  quiet  in  the  world  about  them. 
She  was  like  a  delighted  child  as  she  laughed  with 
him  at  the  inane  caperings  of  the  calves,  those 
poor  little  clowns  in  spots  and  stripes.  He  looked 
more  often  at  her  radiant,  joyous  face  than  at 
their  entertainers,  and  his  heart  throbbed  with  the 
pride  of  possessing  her. 

Suddenly  she  gasped  and  he  felt  her  hand  clasp 
his  arm  with  the  grip  of  a  vise.  A  glare  of  horror 
drove  the  merriment  from  her  eyes. 


WHEN   THE   CLASH   CAME     53 

"It's  'Gene  Crawley!"  she  whispered.  "He's 
coming  this  way.  Oh,  Jud !" 

"What's  the  matter,  Justine?  He  won't  hurt 
YOU  while  I'm  here.  Let  him  come.  Dear,  don't 
look  like  that !"  he  laughed. 

Crawley  was  approaching  from  down  the  creek, 
walking  rapidly  and  glancing  covertly  toward  the 
house.  It  was  evident  he  had  not  seen  the  couple 
on  the  bank. 

"Let  us  go  in,  Jud.  Please  do !  I  don't  want 
to  see  him,"  she  begged. 

"I'd  like  to  know  what  in  thunder  he's  doing  in 
our  pasture,"  growled  Jud,  with  a  sudden  flame 
of  anger. 

"Maybe  he's  drunk  and  has  lost  his  way.  He'll 
find  the  way  out,  Jud.  Come  to  the  house — 
quick!"  She  was  on  her  feet  and  was  dragging 
him  up. 

"You  go  in,  Justine,  if  you  want  to.  I'm  going 
to  find  out  what  he's  doing  here.  This  isn't 
/a " 

"No,  no !  You  must  not  stay — you  must  not 
have  words  with  him.  If  you  stay,  I'll  stay! 
Won't  you  please  come  in,  Jud?"  she  implored; 
but  his  eyes  were  not  for  her.  They  were  glaring 
angrily  at  the  trespasser,  who,  seeing  them,  had 
stopped  in  some  confusion  twenty  feet  away. 


54  THE   SHERRODS 

"Do  you  think  I'm  afraid  of  the  derned  scoun- 
drel?" he  demanded,  loud  enough  for  'Gene  to 
hear.  The  man  down  on  the  bank  put  his  hand 
out  and  steadied  himself  against  a  sapling.  For 
an  instant  his  black  eyes  shot  fire  toward  Sherrod, 
but  turned  away  when  they  met  the  wild,  dark 
eyes  of  the  girl.  He  had  not  been  drinking  and 
he  was  truly  surprised  by  the  meeting.  There  was 
a  stillness  for  a  moment.  The  two  men  again 
glared  at  one  another,  all  the  hatred  in  their  hearts 
coming  to  the  surface.  The  girl  was  suffocating 
with  the  knowledge  that  she  could  do  nothing  to 
stay  the  catastrophe. 

"Get  off  this  place  and  don't  you  ever  step  your 
foot  on  here  again,"  said  Jud  savagely.  Justine's 
hand  fell  tremblingly  from  his  rigid  arm  and  she 
looked  a  mute  appeal  to  'Gene,  who,  still  holding 
to  the  sapling,  was  trying  to  control  his  rage. 

"I  was  jest  takin'  a  short  cut  to  Bossman's,"  he 
began,  hoarsely,  through  his  teeth.  "I'll  git  off 
yer  place,  if  you  say  so.  I  didn't  think  you'd  mind 
my  cuttin'  off  a  mile  er  so.  Mrs.  Grimes's  baby's 
sick  an' " 

"You  needn't  explain.    Get  out — that's  all !" 

"Oh,  Jud,"  moaned  the  girl  helplessly. 

"Don't  be  afraid,  Justine.  I  won't  hurt  your 
doll  baby.  I'll  git  off  yer  place.  If  it  wasn't  fer 


WHEN    THE    CLASH    CAME     55 

you,  though,  I'd  pound  his  head  into  dog  meat," 
sneered  'Gene. 

"You  would,  would  you?  You're  a  liar,  dem 
you!  A  liar!  Are  you  coward  enough  to  take 
that?"  cried  Jud,  taking  a  step  forward.  She 
threw  her  arms  about  him  and  tried  to  drag  him 
away. 

"Let  go,  Justine!"  he  shouted.  "How  can  I 
protect  myself  with  you  hanging — let  go,  I  say!" 
She  was  stunned  by  the  first  angry  words  he  had 
ever  spoken  to  her.  Her  arms  dropped  and  she 
staggered  back. 

"Oh,  God!  Oh,  God!"  she  half  whispered. 
"Jud,  Jud,  don't !  He  will  kill  you !" 

"Let  him  try  it !  Justine,  dear,  I'm  no  coward, 
and  I  owe  him  a  licking,  anyhow.  Now's  as  good 
a  time  as  any  other.  Go  to  the  house,  dear — it 
won't  do  for  you  to  see  it,"  said  her  husband,  very 
pale  and  breathing  heavily.  He  was  throwing  his 
coat  to  the  ground  where  his  hat  already  lay. 

"You  must  not — you  shall  not  fight,  Jud!  Do 
you  want  to  kill  me?  Mrs.  Hardesty  says  he  is  a 
devil !  Don't,  don't,  don't,  Jud !  If  you  love  me, 
don't  fight  him,  Jud !"  She  threw  herself  between 
the  men.  Crawley  had  not  moved  from  his  tracks, 
but  the  wild  glare  of  the  beast  was  fighting  its  way 
to  his  eyes.  He  was  fast  losing  control.  Try  as 


56  THE   SHERRODS 

he  would  he  could  not  retreat;  he  could  not  turn 
coward  before  his  old  enemy. 

"Will  you  fight,  'Gene  Crawley?"  demanded 
Jud,  over  his  shoulder.  "Or  will  you  run  like  a 
whipped  pup?" 

In  a  second  Crawley's  coat  was  off  and  he  was 
rolling  up  his  sleeves.  Jud  pushed  Justine  aside. 

"You'd  better  go  to  the  house,"  'Gene  said  to 
her.  "It  ain't  right  fer  you  to  see  us  fight.  I 
didn't  want  to,  remember,  but,  dern  him,  he  can't 
call  me  a  coward.  I'll  fight  him  till  I'm  dead." 

"We'll  settle  up  old  scores,  too,"  said  Jud. 
"You've  annoyed  Justine  and  you  ain't  fit  to  breathe 
the  same  air  as  she  does." 

"Damn  you,  Jud  Sherrod,  I  keer  as  much  fer 
her  as  you  do.  I'd  die  fer  her,  if  she'd  let  me. 
You  took  her  from  me  an'  we've  got  to  have  it  out 
now.  You  kin  kill  me,  but  you  cain't  make  me 
say  I  don't  love  her!" 

"I  despise  you,  'Gene  Crawley !  Oh,  how  I  hate 
you !"  cried  the  girl.  "I've  always  hated  you !" 

"I  know  it!  I  know  it!  You  needn't. throw  it 
up  to  me!  But  I'll  make  you  sorry  fer  it,  see  if  I 
don't " 

"Stop  that!  Don't  you  talk  that  way  to  my 
wife !  Are  you  ready  to  fight?"  cried  Jud,  advanc- 


WHEN    THE    CLASH    CAME     57 

ing.  She  made  a  clutch  at  his  arm  and  then  sank 
back  powerless  against  the  great  oak. 

"As  soon  as  she  goes  to  the  house,"  replied  the 
other. 

"Go  to  the  house,  Justine,"  cried  Jud  impa- 
tiently, but  she  did  not  move. 

"I'll  stay  right  here!"  she  said  mechanically. 
"If  he  murders  you,  I'll  kill  him." 

Crawley  ground  his  teeth  and  backed  away. 

"I  won't  fight  before  her.  'Tain't  right,  Jud, 
'n  you  know  it.  Le's  go  over  to  the  lane,"  he 
said. 

"If  she's  bound  to  stay,  let  her  stay.  And  I 
want  her  to  see  me  lick  you !  She's  a  brave  girl ; 
you  needn't  worry  so  dern  much.  Why  don't  you 
want  to  fight  before  her?" 

"  'Cause  I'll  git  mad  an'  I'll  say  things  she 
ortn't  to  hear.  I  don't  want  her  to  hear  me  cuss 
an'  go  on  like  that.  I  cain't  help  cussin'  an' " 

"Oh,  you're  backin'  out!"  sneered  Jud,  and  he 
made  a  rush  at  his  adversary.  Before  'Gene  could 
prevent  it,  a  heavy  blow  landed  on  his  neck  and  he 
went  to  the  ground.  Justine  saw  and  her  heart 
throbbed  with  joy.  As  the  man  fell  she  turned 
her  back  upon  the  thrilling  scene,  insanely  throwing 
her  arms  about  the  oak  as  if  to  claim  its  protec- 
tion. 


58  THE   SHERRODS 

But  Crawley  was  not  conquered  by  that  blow. 
He  was  on  his  feet  in  an  instant,  his  face  livid  with 
rage,  his  mouth  twitching  with  pain.  There  were 
tears  in  his  black  eyes,  but  they  were  tears  of  fury. 
With  a  bull-like  rush  he  was  upon  Sherrod.  The 
girl  heard  the  renewed  struggling  and  turned  her 
face  in  alarm,  still  clinging  to  the  tree.  Fascinated 
beyond  the  power  of  movement,  she  watched  the 
combat.  Her  eyes  never  left  Jud's  white,  convulsed 
face,  and  she  prayed,  prayed  as  she  had  never 
prayed  in  her  life. 

Jud  was  the  taller,  but  'Gene  was  the  heavier. 
Almost  at  the  beginning  of  the  hand-to-hand  strug- 
gle their  shirts  were  stripped  from  their  bodies. 
Both  were  well  muscled — One  clean,  wiry,  and  like 
a  tiger,  the  other  like  a  Greek  Hercules.  One  had 
the  advantage  of  a  quick  brain  and  a  nimble 
strength,  offsetting  the  brute-like  power  and  slower 
mind  of  the  other.  Never  in  her  life  had  Justine 
seen  two  strong  men  fight. 

Sherrod's  coolness  returned  the  instant  he  dealt 
the  first  mad  blow.  Neither  knew  the  first  rudi- 
ment of  the  boxer's  art,  but  he  was  the  quicker 
witted,  the  more  strategic.  He  knew  that  'Gene's 
wild  swings  would  fell  him  if  he  allowed  them  to 
land,  so  he  avoided  a  close  fight,  dodging  away 
and  rushing  in  with  the  quickness  of  a  cat.  He 


WHEN    THE    CLASH    CAME     59 

was  landing  light  blows  constantly  on  the  face  of 
his  foe,  and  was  escaping  punishment  so  surpris- 
ingly well  that  a  confident  smile  twitched  at  the 
corners  of  his  mouth.  Crawley,  blinded  by  anger 
and  half  stunned  by  the  constant  blows,  wasted  his 
strength  in  impotent  rushes.  Jud  wras  not  in  reach 
when  he  struck  those  mighty,  overbalancing  blows. 

"Don't  be  afraid,  Justine,"  panted  Jud;  "he 
can't  hurt  me." 

"I  can't,  eh?"  roared  'Gene  savagely.  "You'll 
see !"  And  there  followed  a  storm  of  oaths. 

In  spite  of  herself,  the  girl  could  not  turn  her 
eyes  away.  The  fierceness,  the  relentless  fury  of 
the  fighters  fascinated  her.  They  were  so  quick, 
so  strong,  so  savage  that  she  could  see  but  one 
end — death  for  one  or  the  other.  Their  panting 
sounded  like  the  snarl  of  dogs,  their  rushing  feet 
were  like  the  trampling  of  cattle,  in  their  faces 
murder  alone  was  dominant.  She  prayed  that  some 
one  might  come  to  separate  them.  In  her  terror 
she  even  feared  that  her  husband  might  win.  Jud 
the  victor — a  murderer!  If  only  she  could  call  for 
help !  But  her  tongue  was  like  ice,  her  voice  was 
gone.  Murder  came  into  her  own  heart.  Could 
she  have  moved  from  the  tree  she  would  have  tried 
to  kill  'Gene  Crawley.  Rather  be  the  slayer  her- 


60  THE   SHERRODS 

self  than  Jud.  She  even  thought  of  the  hanging 
that  would  follow  Jud's  deed. 

Gradually  'Gene's  tremendous  strength  began 
to  gain  ascendency.  His  face  was  bleeding  from 
many  cuts,  his  white  shoulders  were  covered  with 
blood  from  a  lacerated  lip,  but  his  great  muscles 
retained  their  power.  Jud  was  gasping.  The  girl 
began  to  see  in  his  dulling  eyes  that  the  tide  was 
turning.  An  unconscious  shriek  came  with  the  con- 
viction that  her  loved  one  was  losing.  She  saw 
the  triumphant  gleam  in  'Gene's  eyes,  recognized 
the  sudden  increase  of  energy  in  his  attack. 

"  'Gene !  'Gene !"  she  tried  to  cry,  but  her  throat 
was  in  the  clutch  of  a  terror  so  great  that  the  ap- 
peal was  no  more  than  a  whisper. 

An  instant  later  Crawley  succeeded  in  doing 
what  he  had  tried  to  accomplish  for  ten  minutes. 
He  clinched  with  his  tired  antagonist,  and  all  Jud's 
skill  was  beaten  down.  The  big  arms  closed  about 
his  shoulders  and  waist,  and  a  strong  leg  locked 
the  loser's  knee.  Jud  bent  backward.  They 
swayed  and  writhed  in  that  deadly  embrace,  Jud 
striking  savagely  upon  the  unprotected  face  of  his 
foe,  'Gene  forcing  a  resolute  hand  slowly  toward 
Jud's  throat.  Jud's  blows  made  no  impression 
upon  the  brutal  power  of  the  man,  whose  burning, 


WHEN    THE    CLASH    CAME     61 

wide-staring  eyes  saw  only  the  coveted  throat,  as  a 
beast  sees  its  prey. 

A  strangling  cry  came  from  Jud's  lips  as  the 
fingers  touched  his  throat.  He  knew  it  was  all 
over.  He  was  being  crushed — he  was  helpless. 
If  he  could  only  escape  that  hand!  The 
fingers  closed  down  upon  his  neck;  the  hot  breath 
of  his  foe  poured  into  his  face ;  the  big  tree  in  front 
of  him  seemed  suddenly  to  whirl  upside  down; 
something  was  spinning  in  his  head.  As  they  turned 
he  caught  a  glimpse  of  Justine  still  standing  at  the 
tree.  He  tried  to  call  out  to  her  to  help  him — to 
save  him — help!  But  there  was  no  sound  except 
a  gurgle.  His  hands  tore  at  the  merciless  thing  in 
his  throat.  He  must  tear  it  away  quickly  or  he 
would — he  was  suffocating!  He  was  blind!  He 
felt  himself  crashing  for  miles  and  miles  down  a 
precipice. 

Justine  saw  them  plunge  to  the  foot-torn  turf, 
'Gene  above.  Beneath  she  saw  the  agonized  face 
of  her  husband,  her  life,  her  world.  With  a  rush 
those  awful  dreams  came  back  to  her  and  she 
screamed  aloud. 

'"Gene!" 

Her  voice  roused  the  reason  of  the  man,  and  his 
blood-shot  eyes,  for  the  first  time,  sought  the  object 
that  stood  paralyzed,  immovable  against  the  tree. 


62  THE  SHERRODS 

"I'll  kill  him!"  he  panted  malignantly. 

"Mercy,  'Gene!  Mercy!  For  my  sake!"  she 
moaned.  She  tried  to  throw  herself  upon  her 
knees  before  him,  but  her  forces  were  benumbed. 
The  look  in  her  eyes  brought  the  conqueror  to  his 
senses.  His  eyes,  still  looking  into  hers,  lost  their 
murderous  glare  and  his  knotted  fingers  drew 
slowly  away  from  the  blue  neck. 

He  moved  his  knee  from  the  other's  breast  and 
sank  away  from  him,  half  lying  upon  the  grass, 
his  heaving  body  clear  of  her  loved  one.  The 
action  brought  life  to  the  girl. 

With  a  cry  she  threw  herself  beside  Jud's  rigid 
figure. 

"He  is  dead!  Jud!  Jud !"  she  wailed.  "Don't 
look  like  that!" 

Crawley  raised  himself  from  the  ground,  be- 
wildered and  dumb.  To  his  brain  came  the  knowl- 
edge that  he  had  killed  a  man.  Terror  supplanted 
fury  in  his  closing  eyes,  a  pallor  crept  over  his 
swarthy  face.  For  the  first  time  he  looked  into 
the  wide  eyes  in  the  strangled  face.  He  did  not 
hear  the  cries  of  the  woman;  he  heard  only  the 
gasping  of  that  throttled  man  as  they  had  plunged 
to  the  ground. 

"I  hope  I  haven't — haven't  killed  him,"  strug- 
gled through  his  bleeding  lips,  tremulously. 


WHEN    THE    CLASH    CAME      63 

"He's  dead!"  Like  a  hunted  beast  he  looked 
about  for  some  place  in  which  to  hide,  for 
some  way  to  escape.  "They'll  hang  mel  They'll 
lynch  me !"  He  leaped  to  his  feet  and  with  a  yell 
turned  to  plunge  across  the  fields  toward  the 
woods. 

But  the  reaction  had  come  upon  him.  His 
strength  was  gone.  His  knees  gave  way  beneath 
him  and  he  dropped  helplessly  to  the  ground,  his 
eyes  again  falling  upon  the  face  of  his  victim. 
Trembling  in  every  nerve,  he  tried  to  look  away, 
but  could  not. 

Suddenly  he  started  as  if  struck  from  behind. 
His  intense  eyes  had  seen  a  quiver  on  Jud's  lips,  a 
convulsive  twitching  of  the  jaws;  his  ears  caught 
the  sound  of  a  small,  choking  gasp.  The  world 
cleared  for  him.  Jud  was  not  deadl 

"He's  alive !"  burst  from  his  lips.  He  flung  the 
convulsed  form  of  the  girl  from  the  breast  of  the 
man  who  was  struggling  back  to  life. 

As  he  raised  the  prostrate  man's  head,  overjoyed 
to  see  the  blackness  receding,  to  hear  the  gasp  now 
grow  louder  and  faster,  a  heavy  body  struck  him 
and  something  like  a  steel  trap  tightened  on  his 
neck.  Writhing  backward  he  found  the  infuriated 
face  of  the  girl  close  to  his.  Her  hands  were 
upon  his  throat. 


64  THE   SHERRODS 

"You  killed  him  and  I'll  kill  you !"  she  hissed  in 
his  ear,  and  he  knew  she  was  mad !  It  was  but  a 
short  struggle ;  he  overpowered  her  and  held  her  to 
the  ground.  She  looked  up  at  him  with  such  a 
malevolent  glare  that  he  cowered  and  shivered. 
Those  tender  eyes  of  Justine  Van! 

uHe  ain't  dead!"  he  gasped.  "Be  quiet,  Jus- 
tine! For  God's  sake,  be  quiet!  Look!  Don't 
you  see  he's  alive?  I'll  help  you  bring  him  to — I 
won't  tech  him  again !  Be  quiet  an'  we'll  have  him 
aroun'  all  right  in  a  minute!  Lookee!  He's  got 
his  eyes  closed !  I'll  git  some  water!" 

He  released  her  and  staggered  down  the  bank  to 
the  little  stream.  He  heard  her  scream  with  the 
discovery  that  her  husband  was  breathing.  In  his 
nervous  haste,  inspired  by  fear  that  Jud  might  die 
before  he  could  return,  the  victor  made  half  a  dozen 
futile  efforts  before  he  could  scoop  up  a  double 
handful  of  water  from  the  creek. 

When  he  reached  Jud's  side  again,  he  found 
that  she  was  holding  his  head  in  her  lap  and  was 
rubbing  his  throat  and  breast.  The  purple  face 
was  fast  growing  white  and  great  heaving  gasps 
came  from  the  contracted  throat.  'Gene  dashed  the 
water  in  his  face,  only  to  receive  from  her  a  cry  of 
anger  and  a  look  of  scorn  so  bitter  that  it  made  her 


65 

face  unrecognizable.  He  shrank  back  and  in  rebel- 
lious wonder  watched  her  dry  the  dripping  face. 

For  many  minutes  they  remained  as  a  tableau, 
she  alone  speaking.  All  her  heart  was  pouring 
itself  out  in  the  loving  words  that  were  meant  for 
Jud's  ears  alone.  His  ears  could  not  hear  them, 
but  'Gene  Crawley's  did,  and  his  face  grew  black 
with  jealousy.  He  could  not  tear  himself  away; 
he  stood  there,  rigid,  listening  to  phrases  of  love 
for  another  that  mingled  with  words  of  hatred  for 
him.  He  could  not  believe  it  was  gentle  Justine 
Van  who  was  pouring  out  those  wild  words.  At 
last  he  passed  his  unsteady  hand  across  his  eyes 
and  spoke. 

"I — I  guess  I'll  be  goin',  Justine.  Hope  Jud'll 

not "  he  began  nervously.  She  turned  upon 

him. 

"You!    You  here?    Why  don't  you  go?    For 

God's  sake,  go,  and  don't  let  me  see  your  face  again 

as  long  as  I  live !"  she  cried.     "Don't  stand  there 

and  let  him  see  you  when  he  comes  to.    The  blood 

>is  terrible  1     Go  away !" 

He  wiped  the  blood  from  his  face,  conscious  for 
the  first  time  that  it  was  there.  Then  he  tore  down 
to  the  brook  and  bathed  his  swollen  face,  scrubbing 
the  stains  from  his  broad  chest  and  arms.  Going 
back,  he  quickly  put  on  his  coat,  ashamed  of  his 


66  THE   SHERRODS 

nakedness.  Then  he  picked  up  Jud's  coat  and 
threw  it  to  her,  feeling  a  desire,  in  spite  of  all,  to 
help  her  in  some  way.  She  did  not  glance  toward 
him,  and  he  saw  the  reason.  Jud's  eyes  were 
conscious  and  were  looking  up  into  hers,  dumb  and 
bewildered.  With  a  muttered  oath  'Gene  started 
away,  taking  a  dozen  steps  down  the  creek  before 
a  sudden  reversal  of  mind  came  over  him.  He 
stopped  and  turned  to  her,  and  something  actually 
imploring  sounded  in  his  voice. 

"Cain't  I  carry  him  to  the  house  fer  you?"  he 
asked. 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  turning  a  terrified  face  toward 
him  and  shielding  Jud  with  her  body.  "Don't  you 
dare  come  near  him !  Don't  you  touch  him !  You 
dog!" 

A  snarl  of  rage  escaped  his  lips. 

"I  s'pose  you'll  try  to  have  me  arrested,  won't 
you  ?  He'd  'a'  killed  me  if  he  could,  an'  I  didn't 
kill  him  jest  because  you  ast  me  not  to.  But  I 
s'pose  that  won't  make  no  difference.  You'll  have 
the  constable  after  me.  Well,  lookee  here!  All 
the  constables  in  Clay  township  cain't  take  me,  an* 
I  won't  run  from  'em,  either.  I'll  kill  the  hull 
crowd!  Go  on  an'  have  me  arrested  if  you  want 
to.  You  c'n  tell  that  husband  o'  your'n  that  I  let 
him  go  fer  your  sake,  but  if  he  ever  forces  me 


WHEN    THE   CLASH   CAME     67 

into  a  fight  ag'in  all  hell  cain't  save  him.  You  tell 
him  to  go  his  way  an'  I'll  go  mine.  As  fer  you — 
well,  I  won't  say  what  I'll  do  1" 

"Oh,  I'm  not  afraid  of  youl"  she  cried  defi- 
antly. He  strode  away  without  another  word. 
From  afar,  long  afterwards,  he  saw  her  assist  Jud 
to  his  feet  and  support  him  as  he  dragged  himself 
feebly  toward  the  house. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE   GIRL   IN   GRAY. 

FOR  days  after  the  fight  Jud  caught  himself 
stealing  surreptitious  glances  at  his  wife, 
with  the  miserable  feeling  that  some  time 
he  would  take  her  unawares  and  detect  scornful  pity 
in  her  eyes.  He  was  sure  she  could  not  respect  a 
man  who  had  been  forced  to  submit  to  defeat,  espe- 
cially after  he  had  vaingloriously  forced  the  conflict 
upon  an  unwilling  foe. 

But  Justine  loved  him  more  deeply  than  ever. 
In  her  eyes  he  was  a  hero.  For  her  sake  he  had 
fought  a  desperate  man  in  the  face  of  certain  de- 
feat. 

At  the  house  as  she  tenderly  bathed  his  swollen 
face,  "Jud,"  she  said,  "you  won't  fight  him  again, 
will  you?"  A  lump  rose  in  his  throat.  He  felt 
that  she  was  begging  him  to  desist  merely  because 
she  knew  his  shameful  incompetency. 

"You  won't  fight  him  again,  will  you?"  she  re- 
peated earnestly. 

"I  can't  whip  him,  Justine,"  he  said  humbly. 
"I  thought  I  could.  How  you  must  despise  me !" 

"Despise  you!     Despise  you!    Oh,  how  I  love 


THE    GIRL    IN    GRAY  69 

you,  Jud!"  she  cried.  He  looked  into  her  eyes, 
fearing  to  see  a  flicker  of  dishonesty,  but  none  was 
there. 

"I  won't  fight  him  until  I  know  I  can  lick  him 
fair  and  square.  It  may  be  never,  but  maybe  I'll 
be  man  enough  some  day.  He's  too  much  for  me 
now.  He'd  have  killed  me  if  it  hadn't  been  for 
you,  dear.  Good  God,  Justine,  I  thought  I  was 
dying.  You  don't  know  how  terrible  it  was  1" 

The  story  of  the  fight  was  soon  abroad.  The 
fact  that  Jud's  face  bore  few  signs  of  the  conflict 
struck  the  people  as  strange.  'Gene  had  told 
wondrous  talcs  of  his  victory.  On  the  other  hand, 
'Gene's  face  was  a  mass  of  cuts  and  bruises.  It 
was  hard  for  them  to  believe,  but  the  farmers  soon 
found  themselves  saying  that  Jud  Sherrod  had 
whipped  'Gene  Crawley.  Even  when  Jud  ac- 
knowledged that  'Gene  had  whipped  him,  every 
one  said  that  Jud  was  so  magnanimous  that  he 
"couldn't  crow  over  'Gene." 

"Now,  mebby  'Gene  Crawley'll  take  back  what 
he  said  'bout  Jed  an'  Jestine  las'  spring,"  said 
James  Hardesty,  down  at  the  toll-gate,  in  the  pres- 
ence of  a  large  audience.  "He'll  keep  his  dern 
mouth  shet  now,  I  reckon.  He  cain't  go  Voun* 
here  talkin'  like  that  'bout  our  women  folks.  Gosh 
dern  him,  ef  he  ever  opened  his  head  'bout  my 


70  THE   SHERRODS 

wife  I'd  knock  him  over  into  Butter  township, 
Indiany.  What'n  thunder's  the  use  bein'  a  feared 
o'  'Gene  Crawley?  He's  a  big  blow  an'  he  cain't 
lick  nobody  'nless  he  gits  in  a  crack  'fore  the  other 
feller's  ready.  Good  gosh,  ef  I  was  as  young  as 
some  o'  you  fellers,  I'd  had  him  licked  forty-seven 
times  'fore  this." 

So  'Gene's  reputation  as  a  fighter  suffered.  But 
not  for  long.  Harve  Crose,  Joe  Perkins,  and  Link 
Overshine  undertook,  on  separate  occasions,  to 
"take  it  out'n  his  hide"  for  old-standing  grievances, 
and  'Gene  reestablished  himself  in  their  estima- 
tion. Link  Overshine  was  in  bed  for  a  week  after- 
wards. 

The  winter  passed  rather  uneventfully.  In  a 
few  of  the  simpler  country  gatherings  Jud  and 
Justine  took  part,  but  poverty  kept  them  pretty 
closely  at  home.  The  yield  of  grain  had  not  been 
up  to  the  average  and  prices  were  low.  It  was 
only  by  skimping  almost  to  niggardliness  that  they 
managed  to  make  both  ends  meet  during  the  last 
months  of  the  winter.  Justine's  school-teaching 
was  their  salvation,  notwithstanding  the  fact  that 
the  township  was  usually  in  arrears.  Jud  chopped 
wood  for  an  extra  dollar  now  and  then.  Justine 
made  frocks  for  herself. 

She  wore  plain  colors  and  plain  material.    The 


other  girls  wondered  why  it  was  that  Justine  Van 
— they  always  called  her  Justine  Van — looked  "so 
nice  in  them  cheap  little  calicos."  The  trimness 
and  daintiness  of  her  dress  was  refreshing  in  a 
community  where  the  taste  of  woman  ran  to  rib- 
bons, rainbows,  and  remnants.  No  girl  in  the  neigh- 
borhood considered  herself  befittingly  gowned  for 
parade  unless  she  could  spread  sail  with  a  dozen 
hues  in  the  breezcj  the  odor  of  perfume  in  the  air, 
and  unblushable  pink  in  her  cheeks.  Society  in  Clay 
township  could  never  be  accused  of  color-blindness. 
The  young  gallants,  in  their  store  clothes^  were 
to  be  won  by  ribbons  and  rouge,  and,  as  the  sole 
object  of  the  girls  was  to  get  married  and  have 
children,  the  seasons  apparently  merged  in  an  ever- 
lasting Eastertide.  Justine,  then,  aroused  curiosity. 
In  the  winter  she  wore  a  rough  black  coat  and  a 
featherless  fedora.  In  the  spring  her  modest 
gowns  would  have  been  sniffed  at  had  they  covered 
the  person  of  any  one  less  dainty.  A  single  rose 
in  her  dark  hair,  a  white  trifle  at  her  throat,  or  a 
red  ribbon  somewhere,  made  up  her  tribute  to  ex- 
travagance. 

Jud  sketched  her  adoringly.  He  had  scores  of 
posings  even.  When  spring  came  and  they  began 
to  plant,  in  the  midst  of  privation  they  found  time 
to  be  happy.  It  was  on  one  of  their  Sunday-after- 


72  THE   SHERRODS 

noon  sketching  expeditions  that  an  incident  oc- 
curred which  was  to  change  the  whole  course  of 
their  lives.  They  had  walked  several  miles  across 
the  hills,  through  leafy  woodland,  to  Proctor's 
Falls.  Here  the  creek  wriggled  through  a  mossy 
dell  until  it  came  to  a  sudden  drop  of  twenty  feet 
or  more,  into  a  pool  whose  shimmering  surface  lay 
darkly  in  the  shade  of  great  trees  that  lined  the 
banks.  It  was  one  of  the  prettiest  spots  in  the 
country,  and  Jud  had  long  meant  to  try  his  skill 
in  sketching  it. 

This  day  he  sat  far  down  the  ravine,  facing  the 
Falls,  ancj.  rested  his  back  against  a  tree.  She 
nestled  beside  him,  leaning  against  his  shoulder, 
watching  with  proud  eyes  the  hand  that  fashioned 
the  picture.  To  her,  his  art  was  little  short  of  the 
marvelous;  to  a  critic,  it  would  have  shown  crudi- 
ties enough,  though  even  the  faults  were  those  of 
genius.  Her  eye  followed  his  pencil  with  a  half- 
knowing  squint,  sending  an  occasional  glance  into 
Nature's  picture  up  the  glen  as  if  seeing  blemishes 
in  the  subject  rather  than  in  the  work  of  the  artist. 

"What  a  pity  there  is  not  more  water  coming 
over  the  rock,"  she  said  regretfully.  "And  that 
log  would  look  better  if  it  were  turned  upside 
down,  don't  you  think,  Jud  ?  Goodness,  how  nat« 


THE    GIRL    IN    GRAY  73 

ural  you  have  made  it,  though.  I  don't  see  how 
you  do  it." 

Presently  she  ventured,  somewhat  timidly: 
"Don't  you  think  you  might  sell  some  of  your  pic- 
tures, Jud,  dear?  If  I  were  rich,  I  know  I'd  like 
to  have  them,  and  I " 

"They're  yours,  anyway,"  he  interrupted,  laugh- 
ing. "Everything  I  draw  is  yours.  You  don't 
have  to  be  rich." 

"I  mean,  I'd  like  to  have  them  if  I  was  some- 
body else,  somebody  who  wasn't  anything  to  you. 
They'd  look  so  nice  in  frames,  Jud.  Honestly,  they 
would.  Dear  me,  they're  much  nicer  than  those 
horrid  things  'Squire  Roudebush  paid  a  dollar  and 
a  quarter  apiece  for." 

"Nobody  would  want  to  buy  my  things,  Justine. 
They're  not  worth  the  paper  they  cover.  Now, 
who  the  dickens  is  there  in  this  county  that  would 
give  me  a  dollar  for  the  whole  lot?  I  couldn't 
give  them  away — that  is,  excepting  those  I've  made 
of  you.  Everybody  wants  one  of  you.  I  guess  I 
must  draw  you  better  than  anything  else." 

"You  make  me  look  so  much  prettier  than  I 
really  am,"  she  expostulated. 

"No,  I  don't,  either,"  he  responded.  For  a 
long  time  she  forgot  to  look  at  his  pencil.  Her 
eyes  were  bent  reflectively  upon  the  brown,  smooth 


74  THE   SHERRODS 

face  with  the  studious  wrinkle  in  the  forehead,  and 
she  was  not  thinking  of  the  picture.  Suddenly  she 
patted  his  cheek  and  afterwards  toyed  in  silence 
with  the  curls  that  clustered  around  his  ear. 

An  elderly  lady,  a  slender  young  woman  in  a 
modish  gown  of  gray,  and  a  tall,  boyish  chap 
slowly  approached  the  point  from  which  Proctor's 
Falls  could  best  be  viewed.  Their  clothes  and  man- 
ner proclaimed  them  to  be  city  people.  The  boy, 
over  whose  sullen  forehead  tilted  a  rakish  traveling 
cap,  seemed  to  be  expostulating  with  the  young 
woman.  From  his  manner  it  was  easy  to  be  seen 
that  he  did  not  regard  further  progress  into  the 
wilds  as  pleasant,  profitable,  or  necessary.  The 
elder  lady,  who  was  fleshy,  evidently  supported 
the  youth  in  his  impatience,  but  the  gray  gown  was 
enthusiastically  in  the  foreground  and  was  deter- 
mined to  push  its  very  charming  self  into  the  heart 
of  the  sylvan  discovery. 

When  they  had  come  within  a  hundred  feet  of 
the  big  tree  that  sheltered  the  artist  and  his  com- 
panion, the  little  bit  of  genre  in  their  landscape 
attracted  them.  The  visitors  halted  and  surveyed 
the  unconscious  couple,  the  young  lady  showing 
curiosity,  the  young  man  showing  disgust,  the  old 
lady  showing  indecision.  Their  brief  discussion 
resolved  itself  into  a  separation  of  forces.  The 


THE    GIRL    IN    GRAY  *tf 

young  lady  petulantly  forsook  her  companions  and 
picked  her  way  through  the  trees  toward  the  Falls. 

"Let  'em  alone,  Sis,"  objected  the  youth,  as  she 
persisted  in  going  forward;  "it's  some  country  jay 
and  his  girl  and  he'll  not  thank  you  for " 

"Oh,  go  back  to  the  train,  Randall,"  interrupted 
the  young  maiden.  "He  won't  eat  me,  you  know, 
and  one  can't  see  that  pretty  little  waterfall  unless 
one  gets  out  there  where  your  lovers  sit.  If  you 
won't  go  with  me,  let  me  go  alone  in  peace.  Wait 
here,  mamma,  until  I  come  back,  and  don't  let  little 
Randall  sulk  himself  into  tears." 

"You  make  me  sick,"  growled  the  youth  wrath- 
fully. 

The  girl  in  gray  soon  came  to  the  edge  of  the 
little  opening  in  which  Jud  and  Justine  sat,  pausing 
some  twenty  feet  away  to  smile  admiringly  upon 
the  unsuspecting  pair.  It  was  a  charming  picture 
that  lay  before  her,  and  she  was  loth  to  disturb  its 
quiet  beauty.  With  a  sudden  feeling  that  she 
might  be  intruding,  she  turned  to  steal  away  as  she 
had  come.  A  twig  crackled  under  her  shoe.  The 
other  girl,  startled,  looked  up  at  her  with  amaze- 
ment in  her  eyes,  her  ripe  lips  apart  as  if  ready  to 
utter  an  exclamation  that  would  not  come.  The 
youth's  eyes  also  were  upon  her.  The  intruder, 


76  THE   SHERRODS 

feeling  painfully  out  of  place,  laughed  awkwardly, 
her  cheeks  turning  a  brilliant  pink. 

"I  did  not  mean  to  disturb  you,"  she  stammered. 
"I  wanted  to  see  the  Falls  and — and — well,  you 
happened  to  be  here." 

Jud  recovered  himself  first  and,  in  visible  agita- 
tion, arose,  not  forgetting  to  assist  to  her  feet  his 
wife,  who  in  all  her  life  had  seen  no  such  creature 
as  this.  To  her  the  stranger  was  like  a  visitor 
from  another  world.  Her  own  world  had  been 
Clay  township.  She  did  not  dream  that  she  was 
the  cause  of  envy  in  the  heart  of  the  immaculate 
stranger,  who,  perhaps  for  the  first  time  in  her 
short,  butterfly  life,  was  looking  upon  a  perfect 
type  of  rural  health  and  loveliness. 

"You  don't  disturb  us,"  said  Jud  quickly.  "I 
was  only  trying  to  draw  the  Falls  and  I — we  don't 
mind.  You  can  see  very  well  if  you  will  step  over 
here  by  the  tree." 

"But  you  must  not  let  me  disturb  you  for  the 
tiniest  second.  Please  go  on  with  your  drawing," 
said  the  stranger,  pausing  irresolutely.  She  was 
waiting  for  an  invitation  from  the  vivid  creature 
at  Jud's  side. 

"He  has  it  nearly  finished,"  said  Justine,  almost 
unconsciously.  The  new  arrival  was  charmed 
more  than  ever  by  the  soft,  timid  voice. 


THE    GIRL    IN    GRAY  77 

"Won't  you  let  me  see  the  picture,  too?"  she 
asked  eagerly.  "Let  me  be  the  critic.  I'll  prom- 
ise not  to  be  harsh."  But  Jud,  suddenly  diffident, 
put  the  picture  behind  him  and  shook  his  head  with 
an  embarrassed  smile. 

"Oh,  it's  no  good,"  he  said.  "I  don't  know 
anything  about  drawing  and " 

"Let  me  judge  as  to  that,"  persisted  Gray  Gown, 
more  eager  than  before,  now  that  she  had  found 
opposition.  "I  am  sure  it  must  be  good.  Your 
modesty  is  the  best  recommendation."  She  held 
forth  her  small  gloved  hand  appealingly.  Justine 
looked  upon  that  hand  in  admiration.  It  was  so 
unlike  her  own  strong  brown  hand. 

"It  isn't  quite  finished,"  objected  Jud,  pleased 
and  almost  at  ease.  She  was  charmingly  fair  and 
unconventional. 

"This  is  the  first  time  he  ever  tried  to  get  the 
Falls,"  apologized  Justine,  and  her  smile  bewitched 
the  would-be  critic.  She  was  charmed  with  these 
healthy,  comely  strangers,  found  so  unexpectedly 
in  the  wilds.  They  were  not  like  the  rustics  she 
had  seen  or  read  about. 

"Then  I'll  watch  him  finish  it,"  she  said  de- 
cisively. "Will  it  take  a  very  long  while?" 

"Just  a  few  more  lines,"  said  Jud.  "But  I  can't 
work  with  any  one  looking  on." 


78  THE   SHERRODS 

"Wasn't  this  young  lady  looking  on?" 

"Oh,  but  I  am  different,"  cried  Justine. 

"I  know,"  said  the  other  delightedly,  "you  are 
— are  sweethearts.  Of  course,  that  does  make  a 
difference.  Now,  aren't  you  sweethearts?"  The 
two  flushed  unreasonably  and  exchanged  glances. 

"I  guess  it's  not  hard  to  guess  that,"  said  Jud 
lamely.  "You  probably  saw  us  before  we  saw 
you." 

"Show  her  the  picture,"  murmured  Justine, 
dimly  conscious  that  she  and  Jud  had  seemed  amus- 
ing to  a  stranger.  Jud  reluctantly  held  up  the 
sketching  board.  The  stranger  uttered  a  little  cry 
of  amazement. 

"Whyl"  she  cried,  looking  from  the  picture  to 
the  Falls  up  the  glen,  "this  is  clever!"  Then  a 
quizzical  expression  came  into  her  eyes  and  she 
looked  from  one  to  the  other  with  growing  uncer- 
tainty. "Pardon  me,  I  thought  you  were — I  mean, 
I  thought  you  lived  near  here.  You  must  over- 
look my  very  strange  behavior.  But  you  will  ad- 
mit that  you  are  dressed  like  country  people,  and 
you  are  tanned,  and "  Here  she  checked  her- 
self in  evident  confusion. 

"And  we  are  country  people,"  said  Jud  blankly. 
The  young  lady  looked  bewildered. 


THE    GIRL    IN    GRAY  79 

"Are  you  in  earnest?"  she  demanded  doubt- 
ingly.  "Are  you  not  out  here  from  the  city?" 

"We  have  lived  all  our  lives  within  five  miles 
of  this  spot,"  said  Jud,  flushing. 

"And  I  have  never  seen  a  big  city,"  added 
Justine,  first  to  divine  the  cause  of  the  stranger's 
mistake.  The  critic  thought  herself  to  be  in  the 
presence  of  a  genius  from  some  city  studio.  It 
was  a  pretty  and  unfeigned  compliment  to  Jud's 
picture. 

"I  cannot  believe  ft,"  she  cried.  "You  may  live 
here,  sir,  but  you  have  studied  drawing.  I  have 
never  seen  a  more  perfect  sketch." 

"I  have  never  taken  an  hour's  instruction  in  my 
life,"  said  Jud,  his  voice  trembling  with  joy. 

"Oh,  now  I  know  you  have  been  trifling  with 
me,"  she  cried,  flushing  slightly. 

"It  1s  the  truth,  isn't  it,  Justine?  I  thought 
anybody  could  see  that  I  know  nothing  about  draw- 
ing. I  only  wish  I  could  go  to  an  art  school." 

"You  really  are  in  earnest?"  the  stranger  asked, 
looking  from  one  to  the  other.  "Then  you  must 
tell  me  all  about  yourself.  A  man  with  your 
talent  should  not  be  lost  in  these  wilds.  You  have 
a  wonderful  gift.  Truly,  I  can  hardly  believe 
even  now  that  you  are  not  deceiving  me." 


8o  THE   SHERRODS 

The  two  glanced  at  each  other  rather  helplessly, 
not  knowing  how  to  reply. 

"You  haven't  looked  at  the  Falls,"  stammered 
Jud,  at  last.  The  girl  in  gray  laughed  and  her  eyes 
went  to  Justine's  rich,  warm  face  as  if  expecting 
her  to  join  in  the  merriment  at  his  expense.  Jus- 
tine, however,  was  too  deep  in  admiration  to  think 
of  smiling.  Caught  by  the  gaze  of  the  stranger, 
she  was  at  last  forced  to  smile  vaguely. 

"I  haven't  time  for  the  Fal's,"  said  the  stranger. 
"I  am  interested  only  in  you.  You  are  worth  culti- 
vating. Dear  me,  if  I  had  you  in  Chicago,  I'd 
make  a  lion  of  you.  How  long  have  you  been 
hiding  this  talent  out  here  in  the  woods?" 

Then  Jud  proceeded  to  tell  her  in  a  disjointed, 
self-conscious  manner  how  he  had  been  drawing 
ever  since  he  was  a  child;  how  his  mother  had  as- 
sisted him;  how  Justine  had  encouraged  him;  how 
much  he  longed  to  be  an  artist.  At  the  end  of  his 
brief  biography,  the  listener  abruptly  asked: 

"Will  you  sell  me  this  picture?" 

"I — I — If  you'd  really  like  to  have  it,  I — I — 
will  give  it  to  you.  I  could  not  ask  you  anything 
for  it.  It's  not  worth  a  price.  Besides,  you've 
been  so  kind  to  me.  Won't  you  accept  it  as  a  gift  ?" 
he  answered,  beginning  awkwardly,  but  ending 


THE    GIRL    IN    GRAY     .       81 

eagerly.  Justine's  eyes  were  pleading  with  the 
young  lady  to  take  it. 

"But  you  must  let  me  pay  you  for  it.  You  don't 
know  me,  nor  I  you ;  you  are  under  no  obligation 
to  me.  And  I  would  rather  pay  you  for  it.  You 
see,  it  may  be  your  start  in  life." 

"It's  not  worth  anything,"  objected  Jud. 

"I  know  what  it  is  worth.  Fifty  dollars  is 
cheap." 

Before  she  had  finished  speaking  she  was  count- 
ing the  money  from  he-,  purse.  Thrusting  five  bills 
into  Jud's  hand,  she  snatched  up  the  picture  and 
said: 

"It's  a  bargain,  isn't  it?  You  can't  take  back  the 
picture  because  you  have  accepted  payment." 

"Good  heaven! — I  mean,  I  can't  take  all  of 
this!" 

"But  you  can  and  shall,"  she  cried  delightedly. 
"It  is  not  enough,  I'm  sure,  but  it  is  all  I  have  with 
me.  Some  day,  when  you  arc  famous,  I  shall  have 
'a  valuable  picture.  Now  I  must  be  going.  My 
mother  and  brother  are  probably  in  convulsions. 
See  them?  Don't  they  look  angry ?  Our  train  had 
to  wait  three  hours  over  at  the  other  side  of  the 
woods  until  they  could  repair  the  engine.  We  had 

a  breakdown." 

\ 


82  THE   SHERRODS 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  force  me  to "  Jud 

began. 

"Don't  object,  now!"  she  cried.  "I  am  the 
gainer.  Save  that  money  to  give  to  your  sweet- 
heart on  your  wedding  day.  That's  a  very  pretty 
idea,  isn't  it?  I  know  she  will  approve."  And 
here  she  came  to  Justine  and  kissed  her.  "I  know 
I  should  like  you  very  much,"  she  said  honestly. 
Justine  felt  a  queer  sensation  in  her  throat  and  her 
heart  went  out  more  than  ever  to  the  girl  in  gray. 

"Remember,  it  is  to  be  your  wedding  present 
when  the  sweet  day  comes." 

Jud  and  Justine  glanced  sheepishly  at  one  an- 
other, but  before  either  had  found  words  to  tell 
her  they  were  already  married,  she  was  hastening 
away. 

"Oh,  by  the  way,"  she  cried,  turning  back,  "what 
is  your  name?" 

"Dudley  Sherrod." 

"It  would  be  well  for  me  to  know  it  when  you 
are  famous.  Good-bye!"  she  called  cheerfully. 

Jud  hesitated  an  instant. 

"Won't  you  tell  me  your  name?"  he  cried.  Jus- 
tine clasped  his  arm  in  mute  astonishment. 

The  receding  girl  turned,  smiled,  and  held  up 
her  card,  hastily  withdrawn  from  its  case.  It  flut- 
tered to  the  grass,  and  she  was  gone. 


YOU    MUST    LET    ME    PAY    YOU    FOR    IT. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

LEAVING  PARADISE. 

JUD  hurried  down  the  slope  and  snatched  up 
the  piece  of  cardboard.  His  eyes  sought  the 
name,  then  the  departing  enchantress.  His 
heart  was  full  of  thankfulness  to  the  stranger, 
whose  gray  figure  was  disappearing  among  the 
oaks. 

"She  seems  just  like  the  fairy  qr.een  in  the  stories 
we  used  to  read,  Jud,"  said  Justine.  Looking  over 
his  shoulders,  she  read  aloud :  "  'Miss  Wood.'  Oh, 
dear;  it  doesn't  give  her  first  name.  How  I  wish 
I  knew  it!" 

"And  it  don't  say  where  she  lives,"  said  Jud 
slowly. 

"Chicago,  I'm  sure.  Don't  you  remember  what 
she  said  about  wishing  she  had  you  there?  Dear 
me,  what  could  she  do  with  a  country  boy  like  you 
in  that  great  place?  Harve  Crose  says  there  are 
more  people  there  than  there  are  in  this  whole  coun- 
ty. But  wasn't  she  nice,  Jud,  wasn't  she  nice  ?  And 
did  you  ever  see  such  a  beautiful  face?"  Here 
Jud's  sober,  thoughtful  eyes  looked  so  intently 
upon  his  wife's  brilliant  face  that  she  blushed  under 


*4  THE   SHERRODS 

the  unspoken  compliment.  "And  her  clothes,  Jud  I 
Weren't  they  grand  ?  Oh,  oh,  I  never  saw  any  one 
like  her!" 

The  two  walked  slowly  homeward,  excitedly  dis- 
cussing the  fair  stranger  and  her  generosity.  All 
the  evening  she  and  the  fifty  dollars  so  unexpectedly 
acquired  were  the  topics  of  conversation.  Jud  in- 
sisted upon  buying  a  new  dress  for  Justine — as  a 
"wedding  present" — but  she  demurred.  The 
money  was  to  go  into  the  bank  the  next  day,  she 
insisted;  and  she  ruled. 

He  was  lying  beneath  a  big  tree  in  the  yard, 
looking  up  at  the  stars,  reflectively  drawing  a  long 
spear  of  wire  grass  through  his  teeth.  She  sat  be- 
side him,  her  back  against  the  tree,  serene,  proud, 
and  happy.  It  was  he  who  broke  the  long  silence, 
-dreamily. 

"I  wonder  if  I  could  make  it  go  in  Chicago." 

She  started  from  her  reverie  and  her  hand  fell 
upon  his  arm.  For  an  instant  her  big  eyes  nar- 
rowed as  if  trying  to  penetrate  some  shadow.  In 
another  moment  they  opened  wide  again,  and  she 
was  earnestly  seeking  to  convince  him  that  he  could 
succeed  in  the  great  city. 

The  months  sped  by  and  side  by  side  they  toiled, 
she  with  love  and  devotion  in  her  soul,  he  with  am- 
bition added.  As  the  winter  came  he  slaved  with 


LEAFING   PARADISE  85 

his  pencil  and  pen,  his  heart  bound  to  the  new  hope. 
The  prediction  at  Proctor's  Falls  had  inspired  him; 
the  glowing  blue  eyes  had  not  lied  to  him  even 
though  the  lips  might  have  flattered.  She  had 
praised  his  work,  and  she  knew!  She  must  have 
known  what  he  could  do ! 

Justine  shared  the  enthusiasm  that  had  been 
awakened  by  Miss  Wood.  She  looked  upon  that 
young  woman  as  a  goddess  who  had  transformed 
her  husband  into  a  genius  whose  gifts  were  to  make 
the  world  fall  down  in  worship. 

As  the  spring  drew  near  Jud  began  to  speak 
more  often  of  the  city  and  his  chances  for  success 
there.  He  could  see  the  pride  and  devotion  in  his 
wife's  eyes,  but  he  could  also  see  a  certain  dim,  wist- 
ful shadow  in  the  depths.  He  knew  she  was  griev- 
ing over  the  fear  that  some  day  he  would  desert 
their  happy,  simple  home  and  rush  out  into  the 
world,  leaving  her  behind  until  he  had  won  a  place 
for  her.  She  knew  that  he  could  not  take  her  with 
him  at  the  outset.  He  was  to  try  his  fortune  in  the 
strange,  big  city,  and  she  was  to  stay  in  the  little 
cottage  and  pray  for  the  day  to  come  speedily  that 
would  take  her  to  him. 

With  him,  ambition  was  tempered  by  love  for 
her  and  the  certainty  that  he  could  not  leave  her 
even  to  win  fame  and  fortune.  When  he  allowed 


86  THE   SHERRODS 

himself  to  think  of  her  alone  in  the  cottage,  looking 
sadly  at  the  stars  and  thinking  of  him  in  the  rushing 
city,  he  said  to  himself:  "I  can't  leave  her!"  Both 
knew,  although  neither  spoke  it  aloud,  that  if  he 
went,  he  would  have  to  go  alone. 

Justine  understood  his  hesitation  and  its  cause. 
She  knew  that  she  was  holding  him  back,  that  she 
alone  kept  him  from  making  the  plunge  into  the 
world,  and  her  heart  was  sore.  Night  after  night 
she  lay  awake  in  his  arms,  her  poor  heart  throbbing 
against  his  ambitious  heart,  writhing  beneath  the 
certain  knowledge  that  she  was  the  weight  about 
his  neck. 

One  day,  late  in  the  fall,  when  the  strain  upon 
her  heart  had  become  too  great,  she  broke  the  fet- 
ters. It  was  at  dusk,  and,  coming  around  the  corner 
of  the  cottage,  she  found  him  sitting  on  the  door- 
step, his  gaze  far  away,  his  dejection  showing  in 
the  droop  of  the  broad  shoulders.  A  little  gasp  of 
pain  came  from  her  lips — pain  mingled  with  love 
and  pity  for  him.  She  stood  for  a  moment,  read- 
ing his  thoughts  as  if  they  were  printed  before  her 
eyes — thoughts  of  fame,  honor,  success,  trial, 
chance !  How  good,  how  handsome,  how  noble  he 
was!  She  was  the  weight,  the  drag!  The  hour 
had  come  for  her  to  decide.  He  would  never  say 
the  word — that  much  she  knew. 


LEAFING   PARADISE  87 

"Jud,"  she  said,  standing  bravely  before  him. 
He  looked  up,  shaking  off  his  dream.  "Don't  you 
think  it  about  time  you  were  trying  your  luck  in 
Chicago?  You  surely  have  worked  hard  enough 
at  your  drawing,  and  I  don't  see  why  you  put  it  off 
any  longer." 

For  a  moment  he  was  unable  to  speak.  Into  his 
eyes  came  a  blur  of  tears. 

"But,  Justine,  dear,  how  are  we  to  live  there? 
They  say  it  takes  a  fortune,"  he  said.  There  was 
a  breath  of  eagerness  in  his  voice  and  she  detected 
it. 

She  sat  beside  him  and  laid  her  arm  about  his 
shoulder.  He  turned  his  face  to  hers,  wondering, 
and  their  eyes  met.  For  a  long  time  neither  spoke 
by  tongue,  but  they  understood.  A  sob  came  into 
his  throat  as  he  lifted  her  hand  from  her  lap  and 
drew  her  to  him  almost  convulsively. 

"Justine,  I  can't  do  that!  I  can't  go  away  off 
there  and  leave  you  here  alone.  Why,  sweetheart, 
I'd  die  without  you,"  he  cried. 

"But  when  you  are  able,  dear,  to  take  me  to  you 
in  the  great  city,  we  can  be  the  happiest  people  in 
the  world,"  she  said  huskily.  "I'll  be  lonesome 
and  you'll  be  lonesome,  but  it  won't  be  for  long. 
You  will  succeed.  I  know  it,  dear,  and  you  must 
not  waste  another  day  in  this  wilderness " 


88  THE   SHERRODS 

"It  is  the  sweetest  place  in  the  world,"  he  cried, 
passionately.  "Wilderness?  With  you  here  be- 
side me?  Oh,  Justine,  it  will  be  wilderness  if  I  go 
away  from  you !" 

"Surely,  surely,  Jud,  it  is  for  the  best.  I  know 
you  can't  take  me  now,  but  you  can  come  after  me 
some  day,  and  then  I'll  know  that  I  have  lost  noth- 
ing by  letting  you  go.  You  will  be  a  great — you 
will  succeed !  Why,  Jud,  you  draw  better  than  any 
one  I  ever  knew  about.  Your  pictures  even  now 
are  better  than  any  I  have  ever  seen.  They  can't 
help  liking  you  in  Chicago.  You  must  go — you 
must,  Jud !"  She  was  talking  rapidly,  excitedly. 

"You  love  me  so  much  that  you  are  blind,  dear. 
Up  in  Chicago  they  have  thousands  of  artists  who 
are  better  than  I  am,  and  they  are  starving.  Wait 
a  minute!  Suppose  I  should  fail!  Suppose  they 
should  laugh  at  me  and  I  couldn't  get  work.  What 
then?  I  have  no  money,  no  friends  up  there.  If 
I  don't  get  on,  what  is  to  become  of  me?  Did  you 
ever  think  of  that?" 

"Haven't  you  me  and  the  little  farm  to  come 
back  to,  Jud?  I'll  be  here  and  I'll  love  you  more 
than  ever.  And  I'll  die  here  on  this  old  place  with 
you  beside  me,  and  never  be  sorry  that  you  couldn't 
do  for  me  everything  you  wish,"  she  said  solemnly. 
Then  she  went  on  quickly:  "But  you  won't  fail — 


LEAFING   PARADISE  89 

you  can't,  Jud,  you  can't.  Don't  you  remember 
what  pretty  Miss  Wood  said  about  your  work? 
Well,  didn't  she  know?  Of  course,  she  did.  She 
lives  in  Chicago  and  she  knows." 

"If  I  knew  where  to  find  her  or  write  to  her,  she 
might  help  me,"  said  he,  a  new  animation  in  his 
voice.  "But  there's  no  one  I  can  write  to.  I  don't 
know  how  to  go  about  it." 

"Go  about  it  like  other  boys  have  done.  Lots 
of  them  have  gone  out  into  the  world  and  won  their 
way.  Now,  Jud,  when  will  you  go?" 

The  moment  of  decision  came  too  suddenly.  He 
was  not  ready  to  meet  it. 

"I — I — oh,  we  can  talk  about  this  later  on,"  he 
faltered. 

"We  must  settle  it  now." 

"Do  you  want  me  to  go?"  he  asked  after  a  mo- 
ment. 

"Yes,  I  do,  Jud." 

"How  queer  you  are!  I'd  rather  die  than  leave 
you,  and  yet  you  want  me  to  go  away  from  you," 
he  said  inconsistently. 

"Don't  say  that !  I  love  you  better  than  my  life ! 
Don't  you  see  that  is  why  I  want  you  to  go  ?  It  is 
because  I  love  you  so,  oh,  so  much,  and  I  know  it  is 
for  the  best.  It's  not  like  losing  you  altogether. 
We'll  be  with  each  other  soon,  I  know.  You  can 


90  THE   SHERRODS 

come  home  to  see  me  every  once  in  awhile,  don't 
you  see?  And  then,  when  you  feel  that  you  can 
do  so,  you  will  take  your  poor  little  country  girl 
into  the  great  city  to  live  with  you.  You'll  be  great,/ 
then ;  will  you  be  ashamed  of  me  ?" 

"Ashamed  of  you !"  he  cried. 

For  a  long  time  he  held  her  in  his  arms  in  the 
twilight,  and  pleaded  with  her  to  let  him  remain. 
To  her  courage,  to  the  breaking  of  her  heart,  was 
due  the  step  which  started  him  out  into  the  world 
to  seek  his  fortune  and  hers. 

The  day  was  set  for  his  departure.  She  drew 
from  the  bank  the  fifty  dollars  his  first  picture  had 
brought,  and  pressed  it  into  his  reluctant  hands.  It 
was  she  who  drove  him  into  the  village.  In  the 
pocket  of  his  Sunday  clothes  he  carried  the  names  of 
newspaper  artists,  so  familiar  to  him ;  they  were  the 
men  he  was  to  see — the  strangers  who  were  to  be 
his  Samaritans.  If  they  lent  him  a  helping  hand  all 
might  go  well. 

She  was  to  live  without  him  in  the  little  paradise, 
with  old  Mrs.  Crane  and  Caleb  Spangler's  boy  as 
companions.  They  were  to  conduct  the  affairs  of 
the  farm  through  the  winter  months,  while  he 
fought  for  a  footing  in  another  universe. 

It  was  a  sobbing  girl  who  lay  all  that  night  in 
the  broad  bed,  thinking  of  the  boy  whose  curly  head 


LEAFING   PARADISE  91 

was  missing  from  the  pillow  beside  her,  whose  lov- 
ing arms  were  gone,  perhaps  forever. 

'Gene  Crawley  knew  of  Jud's  intentions  long  be- 
fore his  departure.  In  fact,  the  whole  township 
was  aware  of  the  great  undertaking,  and  there  was 
more  or  less  gossip,  and  no  end  of  doubt  as  to  the 
wisdom  of  the  step.  It  was  generally  conceded  that 
Jud  was  a  bright  boy,  but  still  "he  wuzn't  much  to 
git  ahead,  even  out  in  the  country,  so  how  in  tarna- 
tion did  he  expect  to  make  it  go  in  the  city?"  A 
few  of  the  evil-minded  saw  signs  of  waning  love  in 
the  Sherrod  cottage;  others  slyly  winked  and  inti- 
mated that  'Gene  Crawley  had  something  to  do 
with  it;  and  the  whole  neighborhood  solemnly 
shook  hands  with  Jud  and  "hoped  he'd  come  back 
richer'n  Vanderbilt." 

Crawley  saw  them  drive  away  to  the  station  in 
the  vUlage,  and  he  saw  the  dejected  young  wife 
come  slowly  homeward  at  dusk.  That  night,  while 
she  rolled  and  sobbed  in  her  bed,  he  sat  on  the  fence 
across  the  lane  from  the  dark  cottage  until  long 
after  midnight. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  FIRST  WAS  A  CRIMINAL. 

JUD'S  first  night  in  Chicago  was  sleepless,  even 
bedless.  The  train  rolled  into  the  Dearborn 
Street  station  at  ten  o'clock  and  he  stumbled 
out  into  the  smoky,  clanging  train-sheds  among 
countless  strangers.  It  was  all  different  from  the 
station  platform  at  Glenville,  or  even  the  more  pre- 
tentious depot  in  the  town  that  had  seen  his  short 
college  career.  Sharp  rebuffs,  amused  smiles,  and 
sarcastic  rejoinders  met  his  innocent  queries  as  he 
wandered  aimlessly  about  the  station,  carrying  his 
ungainly  "telescope."  Dismayed  and  resentful,  he 
refrained  from  asking  questions  at  last,  and  for 
more  than  an  hour  sat  upon  one  of  the  unfriendly 
benches  near  the  gates.  Once  he  plucked  up  enough 
courage  to  ask  a  stranger  when  he  could  get  a  train 
back  to  Glenville. 

"Never  heard  of  Glenville,"  was  the  unfeeling 
response. 

The  crowds  did  not  interest  the  new  arrival;  he 
saw  the  people  and  novelties  of  a  great  city  through 
dim,  homesick  eyes,  and  thought  only  of  the  old, 
familiar,  well-beloved  fences,  lanes,  and  pastures, 


THE  FIRST  WAS  A  CRIMINAL    93 

and  Justine's  sad  face.  His  ambition  waned.  He 
realized  that  he  did  not  belong  in  this  great,  unkind 
place;  he  saw  that  he  was  an  object  of  curiosity  and 
amusement;  keenly  he  felt  the  inconsiderate  stares 
of  passers-by,  and  indeed  he  knew  that  his  own 
strangeness  was  an  excuse  for  the  smiles  which 
made  him  shrink  with  mortification.  An  old  gen- 
tleman stopped  at  the  news-stand  hard  by  and  se- 
lected a  magazine.  He  stood  beneath  a  dazzling 
arc  light  and  turned  the  pages,  glancing  at  the  pic- 
tures. Jud  was  attracted  by  the  honest  kindliness 
of  his  face,  and  approached  him.  The  old  gentle- 
man looked  up. 

"Excuse  me,  sir,  but  I  am  a  stranger  here,  and 
I'd  like  to  ask  a  favor,"  said  Jud.  He  found  that 
his  voice  was  hoarse. 

"I  have  nothing  for  you,"  said  the  old  gentle- 
man, returning  to  the  magazine. 

"I'm  not  a  beggar,"  cried  Jud,  drawing  back,  cut 
to  the  quick. 

"Don't  you  want  enough  to  get  a  bed  or  some- 
thing for  a  starving  mother  to  eat?"  sarcastically 
demanded  the  old  gentleman,  taking  another  look 
at  the  youth. 

"I  have  had  nothing  but  hard  words  since  I  came 
into  this  depot,  and  God  knows  I've  tried  to  be  re- 
spectful. What  am  I  that  every  one  should  treat 


94  THE   SHERRODS 

me  like  a  dog  ?  Do  I  look  like  a  beggar  or  a  thief? 
I  know  I  look  just  what  I  am,  a  country  boy,  but 
that  oughtn't  to  turn  people  against  me."  Jud  ut- 
tered these  words  in  a  voice  trembling  with  pent-up 
anger  and  the  tears  of  a  long-tried  indignation. 
Suddenly  his  eyes  flashed  and  he  blurted  forth  the 
real  fierceness  of  his  feelings  in  a  savage,  and,  for 
him,  unusual  display  of  resentment :  "For  two  cents 
I'd  tell  the  whole  crowd  to  go  to  hell !" 
1  It  was  this  intense  and  startling  expression  that 
convinced  the  stranger  of  Jud's  genuineness.  There 
was  no  mistaking  the  sincerity  of  that  wrath. 

"My  boy,  you  shouldn't  say  that.  This  is  a  big 
and  busy  city,  and  you  must  get  used  to  the  ways 
of  it.  I  see  you  are  a  good,  honest  lad,  and  I  beg 
pardon  for  my  unkind  words.  Now,  tell  me,  what 
can  I  do  for  you  ?  My  train  leaves  in  ten  minutes, 
so  we  have  no  time  to  spare.  Tell  me  what  you 
are  doing  here." 

Jud's  heart  leaped  at  the  sound  of  these,  the  first 
kindly  tones  he  had  heard,  and  he  poured  forth  the 
disjointed  story  of  his  ambitions,  not  once  thinking 
that  the  stranger  could  have  no  personal  interest 
in  them.  But  he  had  won  an  attentive  listener. 

"You're  the  sort  of  a  boy  I  like,"  exclaimed  the 
gray-haired  Chicagoan,  grasping  the  boy's  hand. 
"I'll  be  back  in  Chicago  in  three  or  four  days,  and 


THE  FIRST  WAS  A  CRIMINAL    95 

I'll  do  all  I  can  to  help  you.  Get  along  here  as  best 
you  can  till  next  Friday,  and  then  come  to  see  me. 
Here  is  my  card,"  and  he  handed  forth  an  en- 
graved piece  of  cardboard.  "Don't  forget  it,  now, 
for  I  am  interested  in  you.  Hanged  if  I  don't  like 
a  boy  who  talks  as  you  did  awhile  ago.  I  feel  that 
way  myself  sometimes.  Good-bye ;  I  must  get  this 
train.  Friday  morning,  Mr. — Oh,  what  is  your 
name?" 

"Dudley  Sherrod,  sir,  and  I'm  much  obliged  to 
you.  But  I  wanted  to  ask  a  favor  of  you.  Where 
can  I  find  a  place  to  sleep?" 

"Good  Lord,  was  that  all  you  wanted?"  And 
then  the  old  gentleman  directed  him  to  a  nearby 
hotel.  "Stay  there  to-night,  and  if  it's  too  high- 
priced,  hunt  a  cheaper  place  to-morrow.  There 
goes  my  train!" 

Jud  looked  after  him  as  he  raced  down  the  yard, 
and  drew  a  breath  of  relief  as  he  swung  upon  the 
rear  platform  of  the  last  sleeper,  awkwardly,  but 
safely.  Then  he  read  the  card.  "Christopher 
Barlow,"  it  said,  "Investment  Broker."  It  seemed 
promising,  and  with  a  somewhat  lighter  heart  he 
made  his  way  to  his  cumbersome  valise,  so  unlike 
the  neat  boxes  carried  by  other  travelers,  and  pre- 
pared for  the  walk  out  into  the  lamplights  of  a  Chi- 
cago street.  He  found  the  hotel,  but  had  to  occupy 


96  THE   SHERRODS 

a  chair  in  the  office  all  night,  for  the  rooms  were 
full.  A  kind-hearted  clerk  gave  him  permission  to 
remain  there  until  morning,  observing  his  fatigue 
and  his  loneliness.  He  even  checked  the  boy's  va- 
lise for  him  and  told  him  where  he  could  "wash 
up." 

It  was  Tuesday  morning  when  he  started  forth 
for  his  first  walk  about  the  streets  of  Chicago.  The 
clerk  recommended  a  cheap  lodging-house  and  he 
found  it  without  much  difficulty,  and  began  to  feel 
more  at  home.  Some  one  told  him  how  to  reach 
the  Record  office,  and  he  was  soon  asking  a  youth 
in  the  counting-room  where  he  could  find  a  certain 
artist.  Here  he  encountered  a  peculiar  rebuff.  He 
was  told  that  the  artists  did  not  go  to  work  until 
nearly  noon.  To  Jud,  who  had  always  gone  to 
work  at  four  in  the  morning,  this  was  almost  in- 
comprehensible. In  his  ignorance,  he  at  once  be- 
gan to  see  the  easy  life  he  might  lead  if  ever  he 
could  obtain  such  a  position. 

All  the  morning  he  wandered  about  State  and 
Clark  Streets,  Wabash  Avenue,  and  the  Lake  Front. 
Everything  was  new  and  marvelous.  From  the 
lowly  cot  in  the  lane  to  the  fifteen-story  monsters  in 
Chicago;  from  the  meadows  and  cornfields  to  the 
miles  of  bewildering  thoroughfares;  from  the  oc- 
casional vehicle  or  passing  farmhand  of  the  "pike" 


THE  FIRST  WAS  A  CRIMINAL    97 

to  the  thousands  of  rushing  men  and  women  on  the 
congested  sidewalks;  from  the  hayracks  and  the 
side-boarded  grain-wagon  to  the  clanging  street 
cars  and  the  "L"  trains;  from  the  homely  garb  of 
the  yokel  to  the  fashionable  clothes  of  the  swell.  It 
is  a  striking  transition  when  it  comes  suddenly. 

In  the  afternoon  he  was  directed  to  the  room  of 
the  newspaper  artist.  He  carried  with  him  his 
batch  of  drawings,  and  his  heart  was  in  his  shoes. 
Already  he  had  begun  to  learn  something  of  the 
haste  of  city  life.  How  could  he  hope  to  win  more 
than  the  passing  attention  of  the  busy  man?  Sev- 
eral girls  in  the  counting-room  giggled  as  he  strode 
by,  and  his  ears  flamed  red.  He  did  not  know  that 
more  than  one  of  those  girls  admired  his  straight, 
strong  figure  and  sunburnt  face. 

The  artist  was  drawing  at  his  board  when  Jud 
entered  the  little  room  facing  Fifth  Avenue.  There 
was  no  halo  of  glory  hovering  over  the  rumpled 
head,  nor  was  there  a  sign  of  the  glorious  studio 
his  dreams  had  pictured.  He  found  himself  stand- 
ing in  the  doorway  of  what  looked  like  a  junk-shop. 
Desks  were  strewn  with  drawing-boards,  card- 
board, pens,  pads,  weights,  thumb-tacks,  unmounted 
photographs,  and  a  heterogeneous  assortment  of 
things  he  had  never  seen  before.  The  cartoonist 


98  THE    SHERRODS 

barely  glanced  at  him  as  he  stepped  inside  the  door- 
way. 

"Morning,"  remarked  the  eminent  man,  and 
coolly  resumed  work  on  the  drawing.  Jud  was 
stricken  dumb  by  this  indifference,  expected  as  it 
was.  He  forgot  the  speech  he  had  made  up  and 
stood  hesitating,  afraid  to  advance  or  retreat. 

"Is  this  Mr.  Brush?"  he  asked  at  length,  after 
his  disappointed  eyes  had  swept  the  untidy  den  from 
floor  to  ceiling.  Was  this  the  room  of  a  great 
artist  ?  Shattered  dream !  The  walls  were  covered 
with  flaring  posters,  rough  sketches,  cheaply 
framed  cartoons,  and  dozens  of  odd  and  ends, 
such  as  one  sees  in  the  junk-shops  of  art. 

"Yes,"  was  the  brief  response.  "Have  a  chair. 
I'll  talk  to  you  in  a  minute."  Jud  sat  in  a  chair  near 
the  door,  his  fingers  spasmodically  gripping  the 
humble  package  of  drawings  he  had  brought  all  the 
way  from  the  fields  of  Clay  township  to  show  to 
this  surly  genius  whose  work  had  been  his  inspira- 
tion. 

"Fine  day,"  said  Mr.  Brush,  his  head  bent  low 
over  the  board. 

"Yes,  sir,"  responded  the  visitor,  who  thought  it 
one  of  the  most  dismal  days  in  his  life.  After  fully 
ten  minutes  of  awkward  silence,  during  which  Jud 
found  himself  willing  to  hate  the  artist  and  that 


THE  FIRST  WAS  A  CRIMINAL    99 

impolite  pen,  the  artist  straightened  up  in  his  chair 
and  for  the  first  time  surveyed  his  caller. 

"Do  you  want  to  see  me  about  something?" 

"I  want  to  show  you  some  of  my  drawings,  if 
you  have  time  to  look  at  'em — them,  sir,"  said  Jud 
timidly. 

"Oh,  you're  another  beginner  who  wants  a  job, 
eh?"  said  the  other,  a  trifle  sardonically.  "Let's 
see  'em.  I  can  tell  you  in  advance,  however,  that 
you'll  have  a  devil  of  a  time  finding  an  opening  in 
Chicago.  Papers  all  full  and  a  hundred  fellows 
looking  for  places.  Live  here  ?  Oh,  I  see — from 
the  country."  This  after  a  swift  inspection  of  his 
visitor's  general  make-up.  "I  am  a  little  busy  just 
now.  Can  you  come  in  at  six  o'clock?" 

"Yes,  sir.  I'm  sorry  I  bothered  you,"  said  Jud, 
glad,  in  his  disillusionment,  to  find  an  excuse  for 
leaving  the  crowded  workshop.  The  artist,  whim- 
sical as  are  all  men  of  his  profession,  suddenly  fell 
to  admiring  the  young  man's  face.  It  was  a  strong 
type,  distinctly  sketchable. 

"Wait  a  minute.  I  have  an  engagement  at  six, 
come  to  think  of  it.  I'll  look  at  'em  now,"  he  said, 
still  gazing.  Jud  reluctantly  placed  the  package 
on  the  table  and  proceeded,  with  nervous  fingers,  to 
untie  the  string  which  Justine  had  so  lovingly,  but 
so  stubbornly,  knotted.  Every  expression  of  the 


ioo  THE   SHERRODS 

eager,  embarrassed  face  impressed  itself  upon  the 
keen  eye  of  the  watcher.  It  was  with  little  or  no 
interest,  however,  that  Mr.  Brush  took  up  the  little 
stock  of  drawings.  This  boy  was  but  one  of  a  hun- 
dred poor,  aspiring  fellows  who  had  wearied  him 
with  their  miserable  efforts. 

"Did  you  draw  these?"  he  asked,  after  he  had 
looked  at  three  or  four.  Even  Jud  in  all  his  em- 
barrassment could  see  that  his  face  had  suddenly 
turned  serious. 

"Yes,  sir,  certainly,"  answered  Jud. 

"Didn't  copy  them?" 

"No,  sir.  They  are  pictures  of  places  and  ob- 
jects down  in  Glenville." 

"Where  is  that?" 

"In  Indiana.  You  don't  think  they  are  copies, 
do  you?" 

"Drew  'em  from  life?"  asked  the  other  incredu- 
lously. 

"Of  course  I  did,"  said  Jud  with  acerbity. 

"Don't  get  mad,  my  boy.  How  long  have  you 
been  drawing?" 

"Since  I  was  a  boy — 'knee  high  to  a  duck' — as 
we  say  down  there." 

"Ever  have  any  instructions?" 

"No,  sir.     I  haven't  been  able  to  afford  it.     I 


THE  FIRST  WAS  A  CRIMINAL  101 

want  to  go  to  an  art  school  when  I  have  raised  the 
money." 

The  artist  looked  through  the  pack  without  an- 
other word  and  Jud  fidgeted  under  the  strain.  He 
was  anxious  to  have  the  critic  condemn  his  work  so 
that  he  could  flee  and  have  done  with  it. 

"Here's  a  pad  of  paper  and  a  pencil.  See  how 
long  it  will  take  you  to  sketch  that  elevated  track 
and  the  building  across  the  street.  Sit  up  here  near 
the  window,"  commanded  the  artist. 

Jud's  nerve  fled  as  he  found  himself  called  upon 
to  draw  beneath  the  eye  of  an  expert,  and  it  was 
only  after  some  little  urging  that  he  was  induced  to 
attempt  the  sketch.  He  felt  uncertain,  incompe- 
tent, uncomfortable,  mainly  because  he  was  to  draw 
objects  entirely  new  to  his  eyes.  It  was  not  like 
sketching  the  old  barns  and  fences  down  in  Clay 
township.  Closing  his  jaws  determinedly,  how- 
ever, he  began  the  task,  wondering  why  he  was  do- 
ing so  in  the  face  of  a  decision  he  had  reached  but 
a  moment  before.  He  had  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  it  was  not  worth  while  to  try  for  a  place  in 
Chicago  and  had  made  up  his  mind  to  go  back  to 
the  farm,  defeated.  In  twenty  minutes  he  had  a 
good  accurate  outline  of  all  that  met  his  keen  gaze 
beyond  the  window-sill,  and  was  beginning  to  "fill 
in"  when  the  artist  checked  him. 


102  THE   SHERRODS 

"That's  enough.  You  can  do  it,  I  see.  Now  I 
believe  that  you  drew  all  these  from  life  and  na- 
ture. What's  your  name  ?" 

"Dudley  Sherrod." 

"Well,  Mr.  Sherrod,  I  don't  know  you,  nor  do  I 
know  where  Glenville  is,  but  I  will  say  this  much 
to  you :  a  man  who  can  draw  such  pictures  as  these 
is  entitled  to  consideration  anywhere.  It  kind  o' 
paralyzes  you,  eh?  You  may  rest  assured  that  I 
am  sincere,  because  we  don't  praise  a  man's  work 
unless  it  is  deserving.  What  are  you  doing  up  here  ? 
Looking  for  work?" 

"I  want  to  earn  enough  at  something  to  give  me 
a  start,  that's  all.  Do  you  really  think  I'll  do,  Mr. 
Brush?"  His  eyes  were  actually  snapping  with  ex- 
citement. 

"You  can  be  made  to  do.  It's  in  you.  Try  your 
hand  at  newspaper  illustrating  and  then  sail  in  for 
magazine  work,  etching,  paintings — thunder,  you 
can  do  it,  if  you  have  the  nerve  to  stick  to  it !" 

"But  how  am  I  to  get  work  on  a  paper  ?" 

"There  are  twenty-five  applicants  ahead  of  you 
here,  and  we  are  to  lose  a  man  next  month — Mr. 
Kirby,  who  goes  to  New  York.  I'll  see  that  you 
get  his  place.  In  the  mean  time,  you'll  have  to  wait 
until  the  first  of  the  month,  and,  if  you  like,  you 
may  hang  around  the  office  and  go  out  with  the 


THE  FIRST  WAS  A  CRIMINAL  103 

fellows  on  some  of  their  assignments,  just  for  prac- 
tice. You  won't  get  much  of  a  salary  to  begin  with, 
but  you'll  work  up.  I'm  darn  glad  you  came  here 
first." 

"How  do  you  know  I  came  here  first?" 

"Because  you  wouldn't  have  got  away  from  an- 
other paper  if  you'd  gone  there.  Have  you  any 
friends  in  the  city?" 

"No,  sir — yes,  I  did  meet  a  gentleman  at  the 
depot  last  night.  I'm  to  call  on  him  next  Friday. 
Do  you  know  him?"  Sherrod  gave  him  Chris- 
topher Barlow's  card.  The  artist  glanced  at  it, 
and,  without  a  word,  picked  up  a  photograph  from 
his  desk. 

"This  the  man?" 

"Why,  yes — isn't  it  funny  you'd  have  it?" 

"And  here  is  his  daughter."  This  time  he  dis- 
played the  picture  of  a  beautiful  girl.  "And  his 
wife,  too."  Jud  held  the  three  portraits  in  his 
hand,  wondering  how  they  came  to  be  in  the  artist's 
possession.  "Mrs.  Barlow  committed  suicide  this 
morning." 

"Good  heaven!  You  don't  mean  it.  And  has 
Mr.  Barlow  come  home?" 

"That's  the  trouble,  my  boy.  You'll  have  a 
good  deal  to  learn  in  Chicago,  and  you  can't  trust 
very  much  of  anybody.  You  see,  old  man  Barlow, 


104  THE   SHERRODS 

who  has  been  looked  upon  as  the  soul  of  honor, 
skipped  town  last  night  with  a  hundred  thousand 
dollars  belonging  to  depositors,  and  he  is  now  where 
the  detectives  can't  find  him." 

Jud  was  staggered.  That  kindly  old  gentleman 
a  thief!  The  first  man  to  give  him  a  gentle  word 
in  the  great  city  a  fleeing  criminal  1  He  felt  a  cold 
perspiration  start  on  his  forehead.  What  manner  of 
world  was  this? 

His  first  day  in  Chicago  ended  with  the  long  let- 
ter he  wrote  to  Justine,  an  epistle  teeming  with  en- 
thusiasm and  joy,  brimming  over  with  descriptions 
and  experiences,  not  least  of  which  was  the  story  of 
Christopher  Barlow. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE   ENCOUNTER  WITH   CRAWLEY. 

USTINE  received  his  letter  at  the  end  of  the 
week.  The  three  days  intervening  between 
his  departure  and  its  arrival  had  seemed  al- 
most years.  Since  their  marriage  day  they  had  not 
been  separated  for  more  than  twelve  consecutive 
hours.  It  was  the  first  night  she  had  spent  alone — 
the  night  which  followed  his  departure.  In  her 
brief,  blissful  married  life  it  was  the  only  night  she 
had  spent  without  his  arm  for  a  pillow. 

The  days  were  bleak  and  oppressive;  she  lived 
in  a  daze,  almost  to  the  point  of  unconsciousness. 
The  nights  brought  dismal  forebodings,  cruel 
dreams,  and  sudden  awakenings.  She  felt  lost,  in 
strange  and  unfriendly  surroundings;  where  love, 
tenderness,  and  joy  had  been  the  reigning  forces 
there  was  now  only  loneliness.  No  object  seemed 
familiar  to  her.  Everything  that  had  given  per- 
sonality to  the  little  farm  was  gone  with  the  whistle 
of  a  locomotive,  the  clacking  of  railway  coaches, 
the  clanging  of  a  bell.  The  landscape  was  not  the 
same,  the  sky  was  no  longer  blue,  the  moon  and 
stars  were  somber.  Yank,  the  dog,  moped  about 


io6  THE   SHERRODS. 

the  place,  purposeless,  sad-eyed,  and  with  no  ambi- 
tion in  his  erstwhile  frisky  tail.  Jud  had  not  been 
gone  more  than  half  a  day  when  curious  neighbors 
pulled  up  their  horses  at  the  gate. 

"Heerd  from  Jud?  How's  he  gittin'  'long  in 
Chickawgo?" 

"I  haven't  heard,  Mr.  Martin,  but  I  am  expect- 
ing a  letter  soon.  How  long  does  it  take  mail  to 
get  here  from  Chicago?" 

"Depends  a  good  deal  on  how  fer  it  is." 

"Oh,  it's  over  two  hundred  miles,  I  know." 

"Seems  to  me  y'oughter  be  hearin'  'fore  long, 
then.  Shell  I  ast  ef  they's  any  mail  fer  you  down 
to  the  post-office?" 

"I  have  sent  Charlie  Spangler  to  the  toll-gate,, 
thank  you." 

"Gitep!" 

Mail  reached  the  cross-roads  post-office  twice  a 
day,  carried  over  by  wagon  from  Glenville.  Little 
Charlie  Spangler  was  at  the  toll-gate  morning  and 
evening,  at  least  half  an  hour  before  Mr.  Hardesty 
drove  up  with  the  slim  pouch,  but  it  was  not  until 
the  third  morning  that  he  was  rewarded.  Then 
came  a  thick  envelope  on  which  blazed  the  Chicago 
postmark.  Every  hanger-on  about  the  toll-gate  un- 
hesitatingly declared  the  handwriting  to  be  that  of 
Jud  Sherrod.  It  was  addressed  to  Mrs.  Dudley 


THE  ENCOUNTER  WITH  CRAWLED  107 

Sherrod.  The  letter  was  passed  around  for  inspec- 
tion before  it  was  finally  delivered  to  the  proud  boy, 
who  ran  nearly  all  the  way  to  Justine's  in  his  eager- 
ness to  learn  as  much  as  he  could  of  its  contents. 
Jim  Hardesty  had  promised  him  a  bunch  of  Yuca- 
tan if  he  brought  all  the  news  to  the  toll-gate  before 
supper-time. 

Justine  knew  the  letter  had  come  when  she  saw 
the  spindle-shanked  boy  racing  up  the  lane.  She 
was  awaiting  the  messenger  at  the  gate. 

"Is  it  from  Jud?"  she  cried,  hurrying  to  meet 
him,  her  face  glowing  once  more.  He  was  waving 
the  epistle  on  high. 

"That's  what  they  all  say,"  he  panted,  as  he 
drew  near.  "Jim  says  he'd  know  Jud's  writin'  if 
he  wrote  in  Chinese." 

The  poor,  lonesome  girl  read  the  long  letter  as  if 
it  were  the  most  thrilling  novel,  fascinated  by  every 
detail,  enthralled  by  the  wonderful  experiences  of 
her  boy-husband  in  the  great  city.  His  descriptions 
of  places,  people,  and  customs,  as  they  appeared  to 
his  untrained,  marveling  eye,  were  vivid,  though 
disconnected.  Then  came  the  narration  of  his  ex- 
perience with  the  artist,  supplemented  by  playful 
boasting,  and  the  welcome  news  that  he  was  to  have 
employment  on  the  great  newspaper. 

Justine  had  not,  from  the  first,  doubted  his  abil- 


io8  THE   SHERRODS 

ity  to  find  work  in  the  city.  While  she  glowed  with 
pride  and  happiness,  there  was  a  little  bitterness  in 
her  lonely  heart.  In  that  moment  she  realized  that 
there  had  existed,  unknown  and  unfelt,  a  hope  that 
he  would  fail  and  that  the  failure  would  send  him 
back  to  gladden  the  little  home.  Afterwards  the 
bitterness  gave  way  to  rejoicing.  Success  to  him 
meant  success  and  happiness  to  both;  his  struggle 
was  for  her  as  well  as  for  himself,  and  the  end 
would  justify  the  sacrifice  of  the  beginning.  It 
could  not  be  for  long — he  had  already  clutched  the 
standard  of  fame  and  she  knew  him  to  be  a  man 
who  would  bear  it  forward  as  long  as  there  was 
life  and  health.  She  had  supreme  faith  in  his  am- 
bition— the  only  rival  to  his  love. 

She  read  certain  parts  of  his  letter  aloud  to  Mrs. 
Crane  and  Charlie,  glorying  in  their  astonished 
ejaculations,  widespread  eyes,  and  excited  "Ohs." 
Within  herself  she  felt  a  certain  wifely  superiority, 
a  little  disdain  for  their  surprise,  a  certain  pity  for 
their  ignorance.  With  a  touch  of  self-importance, 
innocently  natural,  she  enjoyed  the  emotions  of  her 
companions,  forgetting  that  she  had  just  begun  to 
break  through  the  chrysalis  of  ignorance  that  still 
bound  them. 

Before  "supper-time"  Charlie  Spangler  was  in 
possession  of  the  Yucatan  and  Jim  Hardesty's  place 


THE  ENCOUNTER  WITH  CRAWLEY  109 

was  ringing  with  the  news  of  Jud's  success.  Long 
before  the  night  was  over  certain  well-informed  and 
calculating  individuals  were  prophesying  that  inside 
of  five  years  he  would  be  running  for  the  presidency 
of  the  United  States. 

"'Y  gosh!"  volunteered  Mr.  Hardesty,  "thet 
boy's  got  it  in  him  to  be  shuriff  of  this  county,  ef 
he'd  a  mind  to  run.  'F  he  stays  up  there  in  Chic- 
kawgo  fer  a  year  er  two  an'  tends  to  his  knittin'  like 
a  sensible  feller'd  oughter,  he'll  come  back  here 
with  a  reecord  so  derned  hard  to  beat  thet  it 
wouldn't  be  a  whipstitch  tell  he'd  be  the  most 
pop'lar  man  in  the  hull  county.  Chickawgo  puts  a 
feller  in  the  way  of  big  things  an'  I  bet  three  dol- 
lars Jed  wouldn't  have  no  trouble  't  all  gittin'  the 
enomination  fer  shuriff." 

"Shuriff,  thunder!  What'd  he  wanter  run  fer 
shuriff  fer?  Thet's  no  office  fer  a  Chickawgo  man. 
They  run  fer  jedge  or  general  or  senator  or  some- 
thin'  highfalutin'.  I  heerd  it  said  onct  thet  there 
has  been  more  Presidents  of  the  United  States  come 
from  Chickawgo  than  from  airy  other  State  in  the 
West.  What  Jed'll  be  doin'  'fore  long  will  be  to 
come  out  fer  President  or  Vice-President,  you  mark 
my  words,  boys."  Thus  spake  Uncle  Sammy  God- 
frey, the  sage  of  Clay  township.  He  had  been  a 


no  THE   SHERRODS 

voter  for  sixty  years  and  his  opinion  on  things  po- 
litical was  next  to  law. 

'Gene  Crawley  soon  heard  the  news.  He  had 
been  awaiting  the  letter  with  almost  as  much  im- 
patience as  had  Justine.  If  such  a  creature  as  he 
could  pray,  it  had  been  his  prayer  that  Justine's 
husband  might  find  constant  employment  in  Chi- 
cago. The  torture  of  knowing  that  she  was  an- 
other man's  wife  could  be  assuaged  if  he  were  not 
compelled  to  see  the  happiness  they  found  in  being 
constantly  together.  He  could  have  shouted  for 
joy  when  he  heard  that  Jud  was  to  live  in  Chicago 
and  that  she  was  to  remain  on  the  farm,  near  him, 
for  a  time,  at  least. 

"Well,  Jed's  gone,  'Gene,"  said  Mrs.  Hardesty, 
meaningly,  as  he  leaned  over  the  greasy  counter 
that  evening.  "  'Spose  you  don't  keer  much,  do 
you?" 

"Don't  give  a  damn,  one  way  or  t'other,"  re- 
sponded he,  darkly,  puffing  away  at  his  pipe.  De- 
spite his  apparent  calmness,  his  teeth  were  almost 
biting  the  cane  pipe-stem  in  two.  "Has  he  got  a 
job?" 

"He's  goin'  to  draw  picters  fer  a  newspaper  up 
there,  an'  they  do  say  the  pay's  immense." 

"How  much  is  he  to  git?" 


THE  ENCOUNTER  WITH  CRAWLEY  in 

"He  says  in  his  letter  he's  to  start  out  with  $15 
a  week,  an'll  soon  be  gittin'  twict  as  much." 

"You  mean  a  month." 

"No;  a  week,  'Gene.  Thet's  what  the  letter 
said." 

"Aw,  what  you  givin'  us!  Him  to  git  $15  a 
week?  Why,  goldern  it,  I'm  only  gittin'  $18  a 
month,  an'  I've  allus  been  counted  a  better  hand'n 
him.  Who  said  that  was  in  the  letter?"  Jealousy 
was  getting  the  better  of  'Gene. 

"Charlie  Spangler  heerd  Justine  Van  read  it 
right  out  loud,  an'  he's  a  powerful  quick-witted 
boy.  He  gen'rally  hears  things  right." 

"He's  the  cussedest  little  liar  in  Clay  township," 
snarled  'Gene. 

"You  know  better'n  that,  'Gene  Crawley.  You're 
jest  mad  'cause  Jed's  doin'  well,  thet's  what  you  air, 
and  you  know  it,"  cried  she. 

"Mad?  What  fer?"  exclaimed  he,  trying  to  re- 
cover his  temper  for  the  first  time  in  his  life. 

"  'Cause  you're  jealous  an'  'cause  he's  got  her, 
thet's  what  fer,"  she  said,  conscious  that  she  was 
stirring  his  violent  nature  to  the  boiling  point.  But 
to  her  surprise — and  to  his  own,  for  that  matter — 
he  gulped  and  laughed  coarsely. 

"Well,  he's  welcome  to  her,  ain't  he?"  he  asked. 
"Who's  got  a  better  right?" 


ii2  THE   SHERRODS 

"Thet  ain't  the  way  you  talked  a  year  ago,"  she 
said  meaningly. 

"You  know  too  dern  much,"  he  said  and  walked 
away,  leaving  behind  a  thoroughly  dissatisfied 
woman.  But  Mrs.  Hardesty  did  not  know  how 
deeply  she  had  cut  nor  how  he  raged  inwardly  as 
he  hurried  homeward  through  the  night. 

Several  days  later  he  boldly  climbed  the  meadow 
fence,  and,  for  the  first  time  since  the  fight,  started 
across  Justine's  property  on  a  short  cut  to  the  hills. 
What  his  object  was  in  going  to  the  hills  in  the  dusk 
of  that  evening  he  himself  did  not  clearly  under- 
stand, but  at  the  bottom  of  it  all  was  the  desire  to  in- 
trude upon  forbidden  ground.  Beneath  the  ugliness 
of  his  motive,  however,  there  lurked  a  certain  timid- 
ity. He  was  conscious  that  he  was  trespassing,  and 
he  knew  she  would  not  like  it.  But  if  she  saw  him 
cross  the  meadow,  he  never  knew.  His  intention 
had  been,  of  course,  to  attract  her  notice,  and  he 
was  filled  with  disappointment.  Late  in  the  night 
he  walked  back  from  the  hills.  There  was  a  light 
in  one  of  her  rear  windows,  and  he  peered  eagerly 
from  the  garden  fence,  hoping  to  catch  a  glimpse 
of  her.  When  Yank  began  to  bark,  he  threw 
stones  at  the  faithful  brute  and  stood  his  ground, 
trusting  that  she  would  come  to  the  door.  He 
cursed  when  old  Mrs.  Crane  appeared  in  the  yard, 


THE  ENCOUNTER  WITH  CRAWLED  113 

calling  in  frightened  tones  to  the  dog.  Then  he 
slunk  away  in  the  night.  The  next  day  and  the 
next  he  strode  through  the  meadow.  With  each 
failure  he  grew  uglier  and  more  set  in  his  purpose, 
for  he  had  a  fair  certainty  that  she  saw  and  avoided 
him. 

One  evening  he  ventured  across  the  meadow,  his 
black  eyes  searching  for  her.  Suddenly  he  came 
upon  her.  She  was  driving  a  cow  home  from  a 
far  corner  of  the  pasture,  leisurely,  in  the  waning 
daylight,  her  thoughts  of  Jud  and  the  future.  She 
did  not  see  Crawley  until  he  was  almost  beside  her, 
and  she  could  not  restrain  the  gasp  of  terror.  Hop- 
ing that  he  would  not  speak  to  her,  she  hurried  on. 

"Have  you  heerd  from  Jud  ag'in,  Justine?"  he 
asked,  his  voice  trembling  in  spite  of  himself. 

"How  dare  you  speak  to  me?"  she  cried,  not 
checking  her  speed,  nor  glancing  toward  him. 

"Well,  I  guess  I've  got  a  voice  an'  they  ain't  no 
law  ag'in  me  usin'  it,  is  there?  What's  the  use 
bein'  so  unfriendly,  anyhow  ?  I'll  drive  the  cow  in 
fer  you,  Justine,"  he  went  on  with  a  strange  bash- 
fulness. 

His  stride  toward  her  brought  her  to  a  standstill, 
her  eyes  flashing  with  resentment. 

'  'Gene  Crawley,  you've  been  ordered  to  keep  off 
of  our  place  and  I  want  you  to  stay  off.  If  you  ever 


ii4  THE   SHERRODS 

put  your  foot  in  this  pasture  again  I'll  sic'  Yank  on 
you.  Don't  you  ever  dare  speak  to  me  again." 
She  drew  her  form  to  its  full  height  and  looked  into 
his  face. 

"If  you  sic'  Yank  on  me  I'll  kill  him,  jes'  as  I 
could  'a'  killed  him  when  we  fit  over  yander  by  the 
crick.  I  let  him  up  fer  your  sake  an'  I've  been 
sorry  fer  it  ever  sence.  Say,  Justine,  I  want  to  be 
your  friend " 

"Friend!"  she  exclaimed  scornfully.  "You're 
a  treacherous  dog  and  you  don't  deserve  to  have  a 
friend  on  earth.  If  you  were  a  man  you'd  keep  off 
this  place  and  quit  bothering  me.  You  know  that 
Jud's  away  and  you  are  coward  enough  to  take  the 
advantage.  I  want  you  to  go — go  at  once !" 

"You  ain't  got  no  right  to  call  me  a  coward," 
he  growled. 

"Do  you  think  it  brave  to  say  what  you  did  about 
me  and  to  make  your  boasts  down  at  the  toll-gate  ? 
Is  that  the  way  a  man  acts?" 

"Somebody's  been  lyin'  to  you "  he  began 

confusedly. 

"No!  You  did  say  it  and  there's  no  use  lying 
to  me.  I  loathe  you  worse  than  a  snake,  and  I 
wouldn't  trust  you  as  far.  'Gene  Crawley,  I've  got 
a  loaded  shotgun  in  the  house.  So  help  me  God, 
I'll  kill  you  if  you  don't  keep  away  from  me." 


THE  ENCOUNTER  WITH  CRAWLEY  115 

She  was  in  deadly  earnest  and  he  knew  it.  The 
rage  of  despair  burned  away  every  vestige  of  the 
brutal  confidence  in  which  he  had  intruded  upon 
her  little  domain. 

"I'm  not  such  a  bad  feller,  Justine "  he  be- 
gan, with  a  mixture  of  defiance  and  humbleness  in 
his  voice.  It  was  now  dark  and  they  were  alone, 
but  she  commanded  the  situation  despite  her  quak- 
ing heart. 

"You  lie,  'Gene  Crawley !"  she  exclaimed.  "You 
are  a  drunken  brute,  and  you  don't  deserve  to  be 
spoken  to  by  any  woman.  You  are  not  fit  to  talk 
to — to — to  the  hogs !" 

He  clenched  his  fists  and  an  oath  sprang  to  his 

lips.  "I've  a  notion  to "  he  hissed,  but  could 

not  complete  the  threat.  The  suppressed  words 
were  "brain  you." 

"I  expect  you  to,"  she  cried.  "Why  don't  you 
do  it,  you  coward?"  He  glared  at  her  for  a  mo- 
ment, baffled.  Suddenly  his  eyes  fell,  his  shoulders 
trembled,  and  his  voice  broke. 

"I  wouldn't  hurt  you  for  the  whole  world,  Jus- 
tine." He  turned  and  walked  away  from  her  with- 
out another  word. 

'Gene  Crawley  never  touched  liquor  after  that 
night.  "Not  fit  to  talk  to  the  hogs,"  "a  drunken 
brute,"  were  sentences  that  curdled  in  his  heart,. 


n6  THE   SHERRODS 

freezing  forever  the  lust  of  liquor.  He  was  begin- 
ning to  crave  the  respect  of  a  woman.  Deep  in 
his  soul  lay  the  hope  that  if  he  could  only  cease 
drinking  he  might  win  more  than  respect  from 
her. 


CHAPTER    X. 

THE    CLOTHES   AND   THE    MAN. 

IT  was  six  weeks  before  Jud  had  saved  enough 
money  to  make  the  rather  expensive  trip  to 
Glenville.  In  that  time  he  found  many  ex- 
periences, novel  and  soul-trying.  The  busy  city 
clashed  against  the  rough  edges  of  this  unsophis- 
ticated youth  and  quickly  wore  them  off.  By  the 
time  he  was  ready  to  board  the  train  for  a  two- 
days'  stay  with  Justine  he  had  acquired  what  it  had 
taken  other  men  years  to  learn.  Keen  and  quick- 
witted, he  easily  fell  into  the  ways  of  strangers,  put- 
ting forward  as  good  a  foot  as  any  country-bred 
boy  who  ever  went  to  Chicago. 

The  newspaper  on  which  he  was  employed  rec- 
ognized his  worth,  and  at  the  end  of  the  month 
he  was  pleased  beyond  all  expression  to  find  a 
twenty  dollar  gold  piece  in  his  envelope  instead  of 
a  ten  and  a  five.  The  chief  artist  told  him  his 
salary  would  improve  correspondingly  with  his 
work.  Still,  he  realized  that  twenty  dollars  a  week 
was  but  little  more  than  it  required  to  keep  him 
"going"  in  this  spendthrift  metropolis.  The  men 
he  met  were  good  fellows  and  they  spent  money 


n8  THE   SHERRODS 

with  the  freedom  customary  among  newspaper 
workers.  Jud  did  not  spend  his  foolishly,  yet  he 
found  he  could  save  but  little.  He  did  not  touch 
liquor;  the  other  boys  in  the  office  did.  His  friend, 
the  chief  artist,  advised  him  to  save  what  money 
he  could,  but  to  avoid  as  much  as  possible  the 
danger  of  being  called  a  "cheap  skate."  He  was 
told  to  be  anything  but  stingy. 

The  young  artist  would  gladly  have  eaten  at 
lunch  counters  and  slept  in  the  lowliest  of  flats  if  he 
could  have  followed  his  own  inclinations.  But  how 
could  he  let  the  other  boys  spend  money  on  ex- 
pensive meals  without  responding  as  liberally?  It 
was  with  joy,  then,  that  he  welcomed  the  increase ; 
and  besides,  it  proved  to  him  that  there  was  prom- 
ise of  greater  advancement,  and  that  at  no  far 
distant  day  he  could  bring  Justine  to  the  city. 

He  took  a  bright  twenty  dollar  gold  piece  to  her 
on  that  first  and  long-expected  visit.  She  met  him 
at  the  station.  All  the  way  out  to  the  little  cottage 
he  beamed  with  the  pleasure  and  pride  of  possess- 
ing such  love  as  came  to  him  from  this  glowing 
girL  He  forgot  to  compare  her  with  the  visions 
of  loveliness  he  had  become  accustomed  to  seeing  in 
the  city.  So  overjoyed  was  he  that  he  did  not  notice 
her  simple  garments,  her  sunburnt  hands,  her 
brown  face.  To  him  she  was  the  most  beautiful  of 


THE  CLOTHES  AND  THE  MAN  1 19 

all  beings — the  most  perfect,  die  most  to  be  de- 
sired. 

"Jud,  dear,  I  am  so  happy  I  could  die,"  she 
whispered  as  they  entered  the  cottage  door  after 
the  drive  home.  He  took  her  in  his  arms  and  held 
her  for  neither  knew  how  long. 

"Are  you  so  glad  to  see  me,  sweetheart?"  he 
asked  tenderly. 

"Glad!  If  you  had  not  come  to-day  I  should 
have  gone  to  Chicago  to-night.  I  could  not  have 
waited  another  day.  Oh,  it  is  so  good  to  have  you 
here ;  it  is  so  good  to  be  in  your  arms !  You  don't 
know  how  I  have  longed  for  you,  Jud ; — you  don't 
know  how  lonely  I  have  been  all  these  years." 

"Years !  It  has  been  but  a  month  and  a  half," 
he  said,  smiling. 

"But  each  day  has  been  a  year.  Have  they  not 
seemed  long  to  you  ?"  she  cried,  chilled  by  the  fear 
that  they  had  been  mere  days  to  him  when  they  had 
been  such  ages  to  her. 

"My  nights  were  years,  Justine.  My  days  were 
short;  it  was  in  the  nights  that  I  had  time  to  think, 
and  then  I  felt  I  should  go  wild  with  homesickness. 
You  will  never  know  how  often  I  was  tempted  to 
get  up  out  of  bed  and  come  back  to  you.  It  can't 
be  long,  it  must  not,  till  I  can  have  you  up  there 
with  me.  I  can't  go  through  many  such  months  as 
the  last  one ;  I'd  die,  Justine,  honest  I  would." 


120  THE   SHERRODS 

"It  won't  be  long,  I  know.  You  are  getting  on 
so  nicely  and  you'll  be  able  soon  to  take  me  with 
you.  Maybe  this  winter?"  She  asked  the  ques- 
tion eagerly,  dubiously. 

"This  winter?  Good  heavens,  if  I  can't  have 
you  up  there  this  winter,  what's  the  use  of  trying 
to  do  anything?  I  want  you  right  away,  but  I 
know  I  can't  do  it  for  a  month  or  two " 

"Don't  hope  too  strongly,  dear.  You  must  not 
count  on  it.  I  don't  believe  you  can  do  it  so  soon — 
no,  not  for  six  months,"  she  said,  again  the  loving 
adviser. 

"You  don't  know  me,"  he  cried.     "I  can  do  it !" 

"I  hope  you  can,  Jud,  but — but,  I  am  afraid 

u 

"Afraid?    Don't  you  believe  in  me?" 

"Don't  say  that,  please.  I  am  afraid  you  won't 
be  ready  to  have  me  up  there  as  a — a " 

"A  what,  sweetheart?" 

"A  very  heavy  burden." 

"Burden!  Justine,  you  will  lift  the  greatest 
burden  I  will  have  to  carry — my  spirits.  I  need 
you,  and  I'll  have  you  if  I  starve  myself." 

"When  you  are  ready,  Jud,  I'll  go  with  you. 
You  can  tell  when  the  time  comes.  I'll  starve  with 
you,  if  needs  be." 

That  night  they  received  callers  in  the  fire-lit 


THE  CLOTHES  AND  THE  MAN  121 

front  room.  The  whole  community  knew  that  he 
was  at  home,  and  everybody  came  to  sate  legitimate 
curiosity.  Some  talked,  others  joked,  a  few  stared^ 
until  at  length  the  township  was  satisfied  and  hur- 
ried home  to  bed.  For  days  the  people  talked  of 
the  change  they  had  observed  in  Jud — not  so  much 
in  respect  to  his  clothes  as  to  his  advanced  ideas. 
"Aleck"  Cranby  was  authority  for  the  statement 
that  Sherrod  was  engaged  in  "drawin'  picters  fer 
a  dictionary.  Thet's  how  he  knows  so  all-fired 
much." 

The  young  artist's  brief  stay  at  home  was  the 
most  blissful  period  in  his  life  and  in  hers.  They 
were  separated  only  for  moments.  When  the  time 
came  for  him  to  go  away  he  went  with  a  cheerier 
heart  and  he  left  a  happier  one  behind.  In  their 
last  kiss  there  was  the  promise  that  he  would  return 
in  a  month,  and  there  was,  back  of  all,  the  convic- 
tion that  she  would  go  with  him  to  Chicago  within 
six  months.  On  the  train,  however,  he  allowed 
gloomy  thoughts  to  drive  away  the  optimism  that 
contact  with  Justine  had  inspired.  He  realized  that 
every  dollar  he  possessed  in  the  world  was  in  his 
pocket,  and  he  had  just  six  dollars  and  thirty  cents. 
At  such  a  rate,  how  much  could  he  accumulate  in 
six  short  months  ? 

Back  on  the  little  farm  there  was  a  level-headed 


122  THE   SHERRODS 

thinker  who  was  counting  on  a  year  instead  of  six 
months,  and  who  was  racking  her  brains  for  means 
with  which  to  help  him  in  the  struggle.  One  good 
crop  would  be  a  godsend. 

For  several  weeks  Jud  observed  the  strictest 
economy.  When  next  he  went  to  the  farm  for  a 
visit  it  was  with  sixty  dollars.  Most  of  this  he  gave 
to  Justine,  who  hid  it  in  a  bureau  drawer.  Winter 
was  on  in  full  blast  now,  and  he  did  not  forget  to 
purchase  a  warm  coat  for  her,  besides  heavy  dress- 
goods,  underwear,  and  many  little  necessities. 
Thanksgiving  saw  her  dressed  in  better  clothes  than 
she  had  known  since  those  almost  forgotten  days 
of  affluence  before  the  mining  swindle.  Jud,  him- 
self, was  not  too  warmly  clad.  He  refused  to  buy 
clothes  for  himself  until  he  had  supplied  Justine 
with  all  she  needed.  His  suit  was  old  but  neat,  his 
shoes  were  new,  his  hat  was  passable,  but  his  over- 
coat was  pitiful  in  its  old  age. 

The  night  after  his  return  from  the  farm,  he 
had  a  few  good  friends  in  his  room  to  eat  the 
apples,  cakes,  and  nuts  which  his  wife  had  given 
him  at  home.  It  was  a  novel  feast  for  the  Chicago 
boys.  Ned  Draper,  a  dramatic  critic,  had  money 
in  the  new  suit  of  clothes  which  graced  his  person, 
and  he  sent  out  for  wine,  beer  and  cigars.  The 


THE  CLOTHES  AND  THE  MAN  123 

crowd  made  merry  until  two  o'clock,  but  not  one 
drop  of  liquor  passed  Jud's  lips. 

"Sherrod,  where  did  you  get  that  overcoat  I  saw 
you  wearing  to-day?"  asked  Draper,  in  friendly 
banter.  Jud  flushed,  but  answered  steadily:  "In 
Glenville." 

"The  glorious  metropolis  of  Clay  township — the 
city  of  our  youth,"  laughed  Hennessy,  the  police 
reporter. 

"You  ought  to  pension  it  and  give  it  a  pair  of 
crutches,"  went  on  Draper.  "It  has  seen  service 
enough  and  it's  certainly  infirm.  I'll  swear,  I  don't 
see  how  it  manages  to  hang  alone." 

"It's  the  best  I  can  afford,"  cried  the  owner,  re- 
sentfully. 

"Aw,  what  are  you  givin'  us?  You're  getting 
twenty  a  week  and  you're  to  have  thirty  by  Christ- 
mas— if  you're  good,  you  know, — and  I  would 
blow  myself  for  some  clothes.  Hang  it,  old  man, 
I  mean  it  for  your  own  good.  People  will  think 
more  of  you  if  you  spruce  up  and  make  a  showing. 
Those  clothes  of  yours  don't  fit  and  they're  worn 
out.  You  don't  know  what  a  difference  it  will  make 
in  your  game  if  you  make  a  flash  with  yourself.  It 
gets  people  thinking  you're  a  peach,  when  you  may 
be  a  regular  stiff.  Go  blow  yourself  for  some 
clothes,  and  the  next  time  you  chase  down  to  Glen- 


i24  THE   SHERRODS 

ville  to  see  that  girl  she'll  break  her  neck  to  marry 
you  before  you  can  get  out  of  town.  On  the  level, 
now,  old  man,  I'm  giving  it  to  you  straight.  Tog 
up  a  bit.  It  doesn't  cost  a  mint  and  it  does  help. 
I'll  leave  it  to  the  crowd." 

"The  crowd"  supported  Draper,  and  Jud  could 
but  see  the  wisdom  in  their  advice,  although  his 
pride  rebelled  against  their  method  of  giving  it. 
The  sight  of  the  other  men  in  the  office  dressing 
well,  if  not  expensively,  while  he  remained  as  ever 
the  wearer  of  the  rankest  "hand-me-downs,"  had 
not  been  pleasing.  For  weeks  he  had  been  tempted 
to  purchase  a  cheap  suit  of  clothes  at  one  of  the  big 
department  stores,  but  the  thought  of  economy  pre- 
vented. 

"You  haven't  any  special  expense,"  said  Colton, 
the  third  guest.  "Nobody  depends  on  your  salary 
but  yourself,  so  why  don't  you  cut  loose?  Your 
parents  are  dead,  just  as  mine  are,  and  you  are  as 
free  as  air.  I  can  put  you  next  to  one  of  the  best 
tailors  in  Chicago  and  he'll  fix  you  out  to  look  like 
a  dream  without  skinning  you  to  death." 

Jud  smiled  grimly  when  Colton  said  that  no  one 
but  himself  depended  on  his  salary.  These  fellows 
did  not  know  he  was  married.  An  unaccountable 
fear  that  they  might  ridicule  him  if  he  posed  as  a 
married  man  who  could  not  support  his  wife  had 


THE  CLOTHES  AND  THE  MAN  125 

caused  him  to  keep  silent  concerning  his  domestic 
affairs.  Besides,  he  had  heard  these  and  other  men 
speak  of  certain  wives,  often  in  the  presence  of  their 
husbands,  in  a  manner  which  shocked  him.  No 
one  had  asked  him  if  he  were  married  and  he  did 
not  volunteer  the  information.  It  amused  him 
hugely  when  his  new  acquaintances  teased  him 
about  "his  girl  down  in  old  Clay."  Some  day  he 
would  surprise  them  by  introducing  them  to  Jus- 
tine, calmly,  in  a  matter-of-fact  way,  and  then  he 
would  laugh  at  their  incredulity. 

"I  can't  afford  clothes  like  you  fellows  wear,"  he 
said  in  response  to  Colton's  offer. 

"Of  course,  you  can — just  as  well  as  I  can,"  said 
Colton. 

"Or  any  one  of  us,"  added  Draper.  "Clothes 
won't  break  anybody." 

"You're  a  good-looking  chap,  Sherrod,  and  if 
you  dressed  up  a  bit  you'd  crack  every  girl's  heart 
in  Chicago.  'Gad,  I  can  see  the  splinters  flying 
now,"  cried  Hennessy,  admiringly. 

"It's  no  joke,"  added  Colton.  "I  could  tog  you 
out  till  you'd " 

"But  I  haven't  the  money,  consarn  it,"  cried  the 
victim,  a  country  boy  all  over  again.  They  laughed 
at  his  verdancy,  and  it  all  ended  by  Colton  agree- 
ing to  vouch  for  him  at  the  tailor's,  securing  for 


126  THE   SHERRODS 

him  the  privilege  of  Baying  so  much  a  month  until 
the  account  was  settled. 

Jud  lay  awake  nights  trying  to  decide  the  mat- 
ter. He  knew  that  he  needed  the  clothes  and  that 
it  was  time  to  cast  aside  the  shabby  curiosities 
from  Glenville.  He  saw  that  he  was  to  become 
an  object  of  ridicule  if  he  persisted  in  wearing 
them.  Pride  demanded  good  clothes,  that  he 
might  not  be  ashamed  to  be  seen  with  well-dressed 
men;  something  else  told  him  that  he  should  save 
every  penny  for  a  day  that  was  to  come  as  soon 
as  he  could  bring  it  about.  At  last  he  went  to 
Colton  and  asked  him  what  he  thought  the  clothes 
would  cost,  first  convincing  himself  that  tailor-made 
garments  were  the  only  kind  to  be  considered. 

Colton  hurried  him  off  to  the  tailor,  and  within 
an  hour  he  was  on  the  street  again,  dazed  and 
aware  that  he  had  made  a  debt  of  one  hundred 
and  thirty  dollars.  He  was  to  have  two  suits  of 
clothes,  business  and  dress,  and  an  overcoat.  For  a 
week  he  was  miserable,  and  a  dozen  times  he  was 
tempted  to  run  in  and  countermand  the  order. 
How  could  he  ever  pay  it?  What  would  Justine 
think?  At  length  the  garments  were  completed 
and  he  found  them  at  his  hall  door.  Attached  was 
a  statement  for  $130,  with  the  information  that  he 
was  to  pay  $10  a  month,  "a  very  gracious  conces- 


THE  CLOTHES  AND  THE  MAN  127 

sion  as  a  favor  to  our  esteemed  friend,  Mr.  Col- 
ton,"  said  the  accompanying  note.  In  a  fever  of 
excitement  he  tried  them  on.  The  fit  was  perfect ; 
he  looked  like  other  men.  Still,  his  heart  was 
heavy.  That  night,  taking  up  his  old  cast-off  suit, 
he  mourned  over  the  greasy  things  that  he  and 
Justine  had  selected  at  Dave  Green's  store  the  week 
before  they  were  married.  They  were  his  wedding 
clothes. 

"I'll  keep  them  forever,"  he  half  sobbed,  and  he 
hung  them  away  carefully.  The  time  came  for  his 
next  visit  to  the  little  farm.  In  his  letters  he  had 
said  nothing  about  the  new  clothes,  but  he  had 
admitted  that  unexpected  expenses  had  come  upon 
him.  He  could  not  bring  himself  to  tell  her  of  that 
extravagance.  He  believed  that  she  would  have 
approved,  but  he  shrank  from  the  confession. 

When  he  boarded  the  train  for  the  trip  home, 
he  was  dressed  in  the  clothes  he  had  first  worn  to 
Chicago,  the  greasy  wedding  garments.  He  never 
forgot  how  guilty  he  felt  when  she  told  him  the 
next  evening,  as  they  sat  before  the  old  fireplace, 
that  he  should  buy  a  new  overcoat  and  a  heavy  suit 
of  clothes.  And  after  he  went  away  on  Monday 
she  wondered  why  he  had  been  so  quiet  and  preoc- 
cupied during  his  visit. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

WHEN    THE     WIND    BLOWS. 

FOR  weeks  he  hated  the  new  clothes,  hand- 
some though  they  were,  and  yet  he  realized 
the  difference  they  made  at  the  office,  where 
tolerance  was  turning  to  respect.     He  could  but 
appreciate  the  impression  he  now  made  in  places 
where  he  had  had  no  standing  whatever  up  to  the 
time  when  he  had  donned  the  guilty  garments. 

Not  a  day  passed  during  his  residence  in  the  city 
that  did  not  find  him  on  the  look-out  for  a  certain 
graceful  figure  and  glorious  face.  He  never  gave 
up  the  hope  of  some  day  meeting  the  vivacious 
Miss  Wood.  When  first  he  had  come  to  Chicago 
there  had  been  no  doubt  in  his  mind  that  he  would 
presently  see  her  in  the  street,  but  that  hope  had 
been  dissipated  in  a  very  short  time.  He  did  not 
fear  that  he  would  fail  to  recognize  her,  but  he 
ceased  to  believe  that  she  would  remember  in 
him  the  simple  boy  of  Proctor's  Falls.  He  was 
also  conscious  of  the  fact  that  she  could  be  friendly 
with  the  country  lad,  but  might  not  so  much  as  give 
greeting  to  the  new  Jud  Sherrod.  In  one  of  his 


WHEN    THE    WIND    BLOWS    129 

conversations  with  the  chief  artist  he  innocently 
asked  if  he  knew  Miss  Wood.  The  artist  said  that 
he  did  not,  but  that  as  there  were  probably  a 
million  and  a  half  of  people  in  the  city  who  were 
strangers  to  him,  he  did  not  consider  it  odd.  Jud 
looked  in  a  directory.  He  found  283  persons 
whose  surname  was  Wood.  Not  knowing  his 
friend's  Christian  name,  he  was  unable  to  select  her 
from  the  list. 

He  did  not  know  that  the  names  of  unmarried 
girls  living  with  their  parents  were  not  to  be  found 
in  the  directory.  In  the  society  columns  of  the 
newspapers  he  frequently  saw  a  name  that  struck 
his  fancy,  and  he  decided  that  if  it  did  not  belong 
to  her  she  had  been  imperfectly  christened.  He 
began  to  think  of  her  as  Celeste  Wood.  A  Celeste 
Wood  lived  in  the  fashionable  part  of  the  north 
side,  and  he  had  not  been  there  a  month  before 
he  found  the  house  and  had  gazed  in  awe  upon  its 
splendor — from  a  distance.  Several  times  he  passed 
the  place,  but  in  no  instance  did  his  eye  behold  the 
girl  of  Proctor's  Falls. 

He  told  Justine  of  his  search  for  the  beautiful 
stranger,  and  she  was  as  much  interested  as  he. 
She,  too,  came  to  call  her  Celeste  and  to  inquire  as 
to  his  progress  in  every  letter.  They  exchanged 


130  THE   SHERRODS 

merry  notes  in  which  the  mysterious  Celeste  was  the 
chief  topic. 

Christmas  came  and  he  spent  it  with  Justine.  It 
was  a  white  Christmas  and  a  glad  one  for  everyone 
except  Jud.  He  cursed  the  cowardice  that  forced 
him  to  sneak  down  to  Glenville  in  that  tattered  suit 
of  clothes,  for  he  still  shrank  from  the  confession 
of  what  seemed  extravagance  and  vanity.  In  spite 
of  all  he  could  do  to  prevent  it,  the  cost  of  living 
in  the  city  increased  and  he  could  save  but  little. 
Paying  for  those  hated  garments  was  a  hard  task 
each  month;  it  seemed  to  take  the  very  ten  dollars 
he  had  intended  to  save.  The  clothes  he  wore 
home  were  now  bordering  on  the  disreputable,  and 
at  Christmas  time  he  vowed  he  would  wear  them 
no  more.  Justine  had  said  that  she  hated  to  accept 
the  present  he  brought  when  she  saw  how  much  he 
needed  clothing. 

Not  once  did  he  swerve  in  his  fidelity  to  her.  He 
was  the  only  man  in  Chicago,  it  seemed  to  him,  who 
refused  to  drink  liquor.  He  dined  with  the  fellows, 
accompanied  them  on  various  rounds  of  pleasure, 
but  he  never  broke  the  promise  he  made  to  Justine : 
to  drink  no  liquor.  The  gay  crowd  into  which  he 
was  tossed — artists,  writers  and  good  fellows — in- 
troduced him  here  and  there,  to  nice  people,  to  gay 
people  and  to  questionable  people.  In  the  cafe?  he 


WHEN    THE   WIND    BLOWS    131 

met  wine-tippling  ladies  who  smiled  on  him ;  in  the 
theatre  he  met  gaily  dressed  women  who  smiled  on 
him;  in  the  street  he  met  stylish  creatures  who 
smiled  on  him.  He  met  the  wives  and  sisters  of 
his  friends,  and  was  simple,  gentle,  and  gallant;  he 
met  the  actresses  and  the  gay  ones  of  the  midnight 
hour  and  was  the  same ;  he  met  the  capricious,  allur- 
ing women  of  the  fashionable  world,  and  was  still 
the  abashed,  clean-hearted  lover  of  one  good  girl. 
She  was  the  only  woman.  Three  objects  he  had  to 
strive  for:  to  succeed  in  his  work,  to  make  a  home 
for  Justine,  and  to  find  Celeste.  One  sin  harassed 
him — the  purchase  of  two  suits  of  clothes  and  an 
overcoat. 

Winter  struggled  on  and  matters  grew  worse 
with  Justine.  She  did  not  tell  Jud  of  the  privations 
on  the  farm;  to  him  she  turned  a  cheerful  face. 
Nothing  depressive  that  might  happen  down  there 
on  the  over-tilled  little  farm  should  come  to  him; 
he  should  be  handicapped  in  no  way  by  the  worries 
which  beset  her.  The  fall  crop  had  been  poor 
throughout  the  entire  state.  There  had  been  little 
wheat  in  the  summer,  and  the  corn-huskers  of  Sep- 
tember found  but  half  a  crop.  The  farm  was  run 
on  half  rations  after  the  holidays,  simply  because 
the  granary  was  none  too  full.  She  had  sold  but 
little  grain,  being  obliged  to  retain  most  of  it  for 


132  THE   SHERRODS 

feeding  purposes.  What  little  money  Jud  sent  to 
her  soon  disappeared,  despite  her  frugality.  She 
and  old  Mrs.  Crane  lived  alone  in  the  cottage,  and 
together  they  fought  the  wolf  from  the  kitchen 
door  and  from  the  barnyard.  How  Justine  wished 
that  she  might  again  teach  the  little  school  down 
the  lane !  She  had  given  it  up  that  fall  because  the 
time  could  not  be  spared  from  the  farm. 

She  cared  for  the  horses,  cows  and  pigs — few  in 
number,  but  pigs  after  all — while  Mrs.  Crane 
looked  after  the  chickens.  That  winter  was  the 
coldest  the  country  had  known  in  thirty  years,  ac- 
cording to  Uncle  Sammy  Godfrey,  who  said  he  had 
"kep'  tab  on  the  therometer  fer  fifty-three  year,  an* 
danged  ef  he  didn't  b'lieve  this'n  wuz  the  coldest 
spell  in  all  that  time,  'nless  it  wuz  that  snap  in 
sixty-two.  That  wuz  the  year  it  fruz  the  crick  so 
solid  'at  it  didn't  thaw  out  tell  'long  'bout  the 
Fourth  of  July." 

January  was  bitter  cold.  There  were  blizzards 
and  snowstorms,  and  people,  as  well  as  stock,  suf- 
fered intensely.  Horses  were  frozen  to  death  and 
whole  flocks  of  sheep  perished.  Justine,  young, 
strong  and  humane,  worked  night  and  day  to  keep 
her  small  lot  of  stock  comfortable.  The  barn,  the 
cowshed  and  the  hogpens  were  protected  in  every 
way  possible  from  the  blasts,  and  often  she  came 


WHEN    THE    WIND    BLOWS    133 

to  the  house,  half-frozen,  her  hands  numb,  her  face 
stinging.  But  that  bravery  never  knew  a  faltering 
moment.  She  faced  the  storms,  the  frosts  and  the 
dangers  with  the  hardihood  of  a  man,  and  she  did 
a  man's  work. 

With  an  ax  she  chopped  wood  in  the  grove  back 
of  the  pasture  until  the  heavy  snows  came.  She 
would  not  ask  neighbors  to  help  her;  indeed,  she 
refused  several  kindly  offers.  There  was  not  a  man 
in  the  neighborhood  who  would  not  have  gladly 
found  time  to  perform  some  of  her  more  difficult 
tasks. 

One  morning,  cold  almost  beyond  endurance,  she 
awoke  to  find  that  in  some  mysterious  manner  a 
large  pile  of  chopped  wood  lay  in  her  dooryard. 
How  it  came  there  she  did  not  know,  nor  would 
she  use  it  until  she  found  by  the  sled  tracks  in  the 
snow  that  it  had  been  hauled  from  her  own  piece  of 
timber  land.  Again,  in  the  night  time,  someone 
rebuilt  a  section  of  fence  that  had  been  torn  down 
by  the  wind.  She  was  grateful  to  the  good  neigh- 
bors, but  there  was  a  feeling  of  resentment  growing 
out  of  the  knowledge  that  people  were  pitying  her. 
So  when  Harve  Crose  drove  up  one  afternoon  with 
a  load  of  pumpkins  for  the  stock,  she  declined  to 
accept  them.  But  she  could  not  sit  up  of  nights, 
tired  and  cold  as  she  was,  to  drive  away  those  who 


134  THE   SHERRODS 

stole  in  surreptitiously  and  befriended  her.  She 
could  not  so  much  as  thank  these  indefatigable 
friends. 

Her  heart  and  courage  sank  to  the  bottom  One 
morning  when  she  arose  to  learn  that  during  the 
night  the  wind  had  blown  the  straw-thatched  roof 
from  her  cowshed  and  the  two  poor  beasts  were 
well-nigh  dead  from  exposure.  She  sat  down  and 
cried,  nor  could  Mrs.  Crane  comfort  her.  To  re- 
place that  roof  was  a  task  to  try  the  strength  and 
endurance  of  the  hardiest  man;  for  her  it  seemed 
beyond  accomplishment. 

Nevertheless,  she  set  about  it  as  soon  as  the  cows 
were  transferred  to  the  crowded  barn.  The  roof, 
intact,  lay  alongside  the  pen,  the  straw  scattered  to 
the  winds.  There  was  but  one  way  to  replace  the 
timbers,  and  that  was  to  take  them  apart  and  re- 
construct the  roof,  piece  by  piece.  She  had  battered 
several  rough-hewn  supports  from  their  position 
and  was  surveying  the  task  before  her  with  a  sullen 
expression  in  her  eyes.  The  vigorous  exercise  had 
put  a  hot  glow  in  her  cheeks,  and,  as  she  stood  there 
in  the  snow,  her  ax  across  her  shoulder,  as  straight 
as  an  arrow,  she  was  a  charming  picture.  A  biting 
atmosphere  chilled  the  breath  as  it  came  from  her 
red,  full  lips,  wafting  it  away,  white  and  frosty. 

The  man  who  vaulted  the  fence  behind  her  and 


WHEN    THE    WIND    BLOWS    135 

came  slowly  across  the  barn  lot  felt  his  heart  beat 
fiercely  against  the  rough  oilskin  jacket.  The  girl 
did  not  see  him  until  she  turned  at  the  sound  of  his 
hoarse  voice. 

"That  ain't  no  work  fer  you,"  he  was  saying. 

She  found  herself  looking  into  the  hostile  eyes  of 
'Gene  Crawley.  There  was  real  anger  in  the  man's 
face;  he  looked  contemptuously  at  the  girl's  slim 
figure,  then  at  the  wrecked  house,  then  slowly  down 
at  his  big,  mittened  hands.  Justine  gasped  and 
moved  back  a  step. 

"I  ain't  agoin'  to  hurt  you,  Missus  Sherrod,"  he 
said,  quickly.  "I'm  goin'  to  help  you,  that's  all." 

"I  do  not  require  your  assistance,"  she  said, 
coldly.  "Why  do  you  come  here,  'Gene,  when  you 
know  I  despise  to  look  at  you  ?  Why  do  you  per- 
sist in  annoying  me?  Is  it  because  my  husband 
isn't  here  to  protect  me  ?" 

"We  won't  argy  about  that  ag'in,"  he  answered, 
slowly.  "You  cain't  put  that  roof  on  the  shed  an* 
I  kin,  so  that's  why  I'm  here.  I  was  jes'  goin'  past 
when  I  seen  you  out  here  slashin'  away  with  that 
ax.  Thinks  I,  I'll  not  'low  her  to  do  that  nasty 
job,  an'  so  I  jes'  dumb  over  the  fence  an' — an' — 
well,  ef  helpin'  you  out  of  a  hard  job  is  annoyin' 
you,  Justine,  you'll  have  to  put  up  with  it,  that's 
all;  I'm  goin'  to  put  that  roof  on,  whether  you 


136  THE   SHERRODS 

want  me  to  er  not.  You're  damn — I'm  sorry  I 
said  that — but  you're  mighty  near  froze.  Go  in 
by  the  fire  an'  I'll  'tend  to  this." 

"I  insist  that  you  are  not  to  touch  a  hand  to  this 
lumber.  I  cannot  pay  you  for  the  work  and  I  will 
not  accept " 

"Don't  say  a  word  about  pay.  You  k'n  have  me 
arrested  ef  you  want  to  fer  trespass,  er  you  k'n  go 
in  an'  git  that  shotgun  of  your'n  an'  blaze  away 
at  me,  but  I'm  not  goin'  to  let  you  kill  yourself 
workin'  out  here  on  a  job  like  this." 

He  drew  off  his  oil  jacket  and  threw  it  back  in 
the  snow.  The  ax  dropped  from  her  shoulder  and 
was  buried  in  the  white  drift.  Without  a  word  he 
strode  to  her  side  and  fished  the  implement  from 
the  snow. 

"I'd  rather  die  than  to  have  you  do  this  for  me, 
'Gene  Crawley,"  she  hissed.  "What  do  you  think 
I'd  be  if  I  let  you  do  it?  What  will  the  neighbors 

say  if  I  let  you  lift  a  hand  to  help  me?     What 

ij 

He  interrupted  with  a  smothered  oath. 

"They  dassent  say  anything,  dang  'em,"  he 
grated.  "This  is  my  business,  an'  ef  they  stick 
their  noses  in  it  they'll  git  'em  pounded  to  hell  an' 
gone." 

"Couldn't  you  have  said  all  that  without  swear- 


WHEN    THE    WIND    BLOWS    137 

ing?"  she  exclaimed,  scornfully.  His  face  actually 
burned  with  shame  and  his  bold  eyes  wavered. 

"I  didn't  mean  to,  Justine.  I — I  jes'  fergot.  I 
want  to  tell  you  I  don't  cuss  like  I  used  to.  Only 
when  I  git  right  mad.  'Sides,  ef  you'd  gone  in  the 
house  when  I  told  you  to,  you  wouldn't  'a'  heerd." 

"Are  you  going  to  get  off  of  my  place?"  she 
suddenly  demanded. 

"Not  tell  I've  fixed  this  roof,"  he  replied  dog- 
gedly. 

"I  don't  want  it  fixed,"  she  said. 

"What's  the  use  sayin'  that?  You  was  trying 
to  do  it  yourself  when  I  come  up  here.  Will  you 
go  in  the  house  er  will  you  stand  out  here  an' 
freeze?" 

"Do  you  think  you're  doing  me  a  favor  in  this? 
Do  you  think  I  will  thank  you  after  it  is  done?" 

"I  don't  believe  I  expect  to  be  thanked,  an'  I'm 
only  doin'  it  because  you  hadn't  ought  to.  I'd  do 
it  fer  any  woman." 

He  swung  the  ax  against  the  restraining  timbers 
and  a  dozen  strokes  freed  the  roof  from  its  twisted 
fastenings.  She  stood  off  at  one  side  and  glared 
at  him.  She  forgot  everything  except  that  her 
enemy — Jud's  bitterest  foe — was  deliberately  be- 
friending her.  A  sudden  thought  came  to  her,  and 


138  THE   SHERRODS 

the  sharp  exclamation  that  fell  from  her  lips  caused 
him  to  pause  and  glance  at  her. 

"Ain't  you  goin'  in  by  the  fire?"  he  demanded, 
panting  from  the  exertion. 

"  'Gene  Crawley,  do  you  know  who  has  been 
cutting  wood  up  in  the  grove  and  bringing  it  to  my 
door?"  she  demanded. 

uYes,"  he  answered,  looking  away. 

"You?" 

"Yes." 

"If  I  had  known  that,  I'd  have  frozen  to  death 
before  I  used  a  stick,"  she  cried,  the  tears  rushing 
to  her  eyes. 

"An'  I  fixed  your  fences  an' — an' — an',  I  might 
as  well  tell  you,  I  come  around  ever'  night  to  see 
that  your  stock  is  all  right,"  he  went  on. 

"You !  oh,  if  I  had  only  known  I  You !  You  I" 
she  exclaimed,  glaring  at  him  with  such  fury  and 
hatred  that  his  eyes  dropped  and  a  miserable  laugh 
of  humiliation  struggled  through  his  teeth.  As  if 
to  ward  off  the  fierce,  direct  stabs  of  those  bitter 
eyes,  he  fell  to  wielding  the  ax  with  all  his 
strength.  The  chips  flew  and  far  away  through 
the  crisp  air  rang  the  song  of  the  steel.  He  did  not 
look  up  until  the  roof  lay  detached  and  there  was 
no  more  chopping  to  be  done.  His  face  was  still 


WHEN    THE    WIND    BLOWS    139 

burning  hotly.  It  was  the  first  real  goodness  of 
heart  he  had  ever  shown,  and  it  had  met  repulse. 

The  anger  melted  when  he  saw  her.  She  had 
not  moved  from  the  spot,  but  it  was  another  crea- 
ture altogether  who  stood  there  now.  Justine's 
hands  were  pressed  to  her  eyes  and  she  was  crying. 
Her  whole  body  trembled  and  her  thinly  clad  shoul- 
ders heaved  convulsively. 

Big  'Gene  Crawley  was  helpless  before  this 
exhibition  of  feeling.  He  felt  that  he  was  to  blame 
for  her  grief,  and  yet  a  longing  to  comfort  her 
came  over  him.  She  looked  forlorn,  wretched, 
cold.  He  would  have  liked  to  pick  up  the  shivering 
girl  and  carry  her  to  the  house.  He  tried  to  speak 
to  her,  but  there  was  nothing  to  say.  The  fear  that 
she  would  resent  a  friendly  word  from  him  checked 
the  impulse. 

Unable  to  control  his  own  feelings  and  possessed 
of  a  wild  desire  to  act  in  some  way,  he  threw  down 
the  ax  and  performed  one  of  those  feats  of  pro- 
digious strength  for  which  he  was  noted.  Stoop- 
ing, he  lifted  the  edge  of  the  heavy  roof  until  he 
could  work  his  broad  shoulders  under  the  end. 
Then,  with  an  effort,  he  slowly  shifted  his  load  to 
the  side  of  the  low  shed.  Rapidly  he  went  about 
the  little  structure  and  replaced  timbers  that  had 
been  wrenched  away,  not  once  turning  his  face 


140  THE   SHERRODS 

toward  her.  When  all  was  in  readiness  for  the  final 
effort,  he  grasped  the  side  of  the  roof  that  still 
touched  the  ground  and  prepared  for  the  lift.  The 
cords  stood  out  in  his  neck,  the  veins  were  bursting 
in  his  temples,  but  steadily  his  heavy  shoulders 
rose  and  with  them  the  whole  weight  of  the  timbers. 
His  great  back  and  powerful  legs  pushed  forward 
and  the  roof  moved  slowly  back  to  its  place. 

Then  he  collapsed  against  the  side  of  the  shed. 
She  had  witnessed  this  frightful  display  of  strength 
with  marveling  eyes.  Once  she  was  on  the  point 
of  crying  out  to  him  to  stop,  certain  that  no  human 
power  could  endure  such  a  strain.  When  the  task 
was  done  she  gave  way  to  unaccountable  tears  and 
fled  to  the  house,  leaving  him  leaning  against  his 
support,  fagged  and  trembling. 

After  a  few  moments  his  strength  returned  and 
he  began  to  fill  up  the  open  places  under  the  edge 
of  the  roof.  At  the  end  of  an  hour  the  shed  was 
as  good  as  new.  Then,  with  a  long  look  toward 
the  unfriendly  house  in  which  she  dwelt,  he  turned 
and  started  for  the  road,  defeated  but  satisfied  that 
he  had  been  of  service  to  her.  At  the  sound  of  her 
voice  he  stopped  near  the  fence.  She  had  come 
from  the  house  and  was  following  him. 

"  'Gene,  I  can  only  thank  you  for  what  you  have 
done.  I  did  not  want  you  to  do  it,  but — but  I 


WHEN    THE    WIND    BLOWS    141 

know  I  couldn't  have  managed  it  myself,"  she  said, 
hoarsely. 

"O,  it  wasn't  much,"  he  growled,  looking  away. 

"  'Gene,  you  must  not  come  here  again  and  you 
must  not  do  these  things  for  me.  I  don't  want  you 
to  help  me.  I  know  what  you  said  about  me  down 
at  the  toll-gate  that  night,  and  I  know  what  people 
will  say  if  you  come  here.  Won't  you  please  stay 
away,  'Gene?" 

He  looked  steadily  into  her  eyes  for  the  first  time 
and  there  was  a  touch  of  real  nobility  in  his  face  as 
he  said  slowly  and  with  difficulty : 

"I  thought,  maybe,  Justine,  ef  I  kinder  slaved 
aroun'  fer  you  they  might  see  that  I  am  good  an' 
honest,  an'  that  I  didn't  mean  what  I  said  that 
night.  I  wisht  somebody'd  cut  my  tongue  out  afore 
I  said  them  things,  er  I  wisht  I'd  been  Doc  Ram- 
sey an'  got  knocked  down  fer  standin'  up  fer  you. 
I  cain't  see  you  workin'  aroun'  like  this  when  I  ain't 
got  a  thing  to  do,  an'  I — I — well,  I  jes'  thought 
people'd  see  I  was  sorry  fer  what  I  said." 

"But  they'll  say  the  very  worst  they  can  about 
it,"  she  cried,  piteously. 

"Then  I'll  kill  somebody !"  he  grated,  and,  clear- 
ing the  fence,  was  off  down  the  road. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE    GOOD    OF    EVIL. 

HEN  Justine  wrote  her  next  letter  to 
Jud  she  purposely  neglected  to  describe 
the  encounter  with  'Gene.  For  the  first 
time  she  wilfully  deceived  him.  In  her  letter  she 
spoke  lightly  of  the  wind's  work  and  casually 
mentioned  the  unimportant  fact  that  one  of  the 
neighbors  had  generously  helped  her  to  make  the 
repairs.  She  felt  that  Jud's  hatred  for  Crawley 
would  have  inspired  something  rash  in  him.  She 
was  confident  that  he  would  throw  aside  his  work, 
his  chances, — everything, — and  rush  to  her  protec- 
tion. And  so  she  found  consolation  in  deception. 

It  was  her  duty — to  God  and  to  herself — to  keep 
these  men  apart,  to  prevent  the  addition  of  fuel  to 
the  flame  which  smoldered  silently,  stealthily. 
There  was  no  doubt  in  her  mind  that  'Gene  was 
truly  penitent.  She  could  not  trust  him,  for  she 
despised  him  too  deeply,  but  she  felt  for  him  a  new 
spirit  of  fairness.  He  had  served  her  and  he  had 
served  like  the  whipped,  beaten  dog  who  loves  the 
hand  of  a  cruel  master.  For  days  after  the  episode 


THE    GOOD    OF   EVIL          143 

at  the  cowshed  she  did  not  see  him,  and  she  was 
glad. 

Every  morning,  however,  she  looked  forth,  fear- 
ful that  she  might  see  him  at  work  or  behold  some 
result  of  his  labor  in  the  night.  One  morning  she 
found  a  brace  of  rabbits  and  a  wild  turkey  at  her 
door.  Mrs.  Crane  saw  them,  too,  and  she  was  so 
full  of  joy  that  the  girl  could  not  find  heart  to  cast 
'Gene  Crawley's  offering  away.  And  she  herself 
was  hungry.  While  Mrs.  Crane  fried  the  rabbits, 
the  girl  sat  back  of  the  stove,  out  of  patience  with 
herself,  yet  scarcely  able  to  resist  the  fragrant 
aroma  that  arose  from  the  crackling  skillet.  Pride 
and  hunger  were  struggling  and  hunger  won. 

Jud  came  and  went  once  more.  She  wore  her 
best  frocks  and  was  cheeriness  itself  when  he  was 
with  her.  He  brought  her  a  few  trifles,  and  she 
loved  him  as  much  as  if  he  had  given  her  jewels, 
and  indeed  what  pleased  her  most  was  the  change 
in  his  looks.  He  wore  his  tailor-made  suit.  She 
did  not  know  that  he  was  still  in  debt  to  his  tailor, 
and  he  did  not  tell  her. 

On  the  day  of  Jud's  departure  she  met  'Gene  in 
the  village.  Her  husband  had  made  her  happy 
with  the  renewed  promise  that  she  could  come  to 
him  in  the  spring.  Justine's  heart  was  singing,  her 
lips  were  burning  with  the  warmth  of  his  love. 


144  THE   SHERRODS 

Bundled  in  shawls  and  blankets,  she  drove  slowly 
from  the  village  through  the  first  vicious  attacks 
of  a  blizzard.  Her  thoughts  were  of  the  hand- 
some, well-dressed  youth  in  the  warm  railway  coach. 
She  forgot  the  cold,  blustery  weather  and  saw  only 
the  bright  garden  of  paradise  which  his  love  had 
created.  Her  heart  sang  with  the  memory  of  the 
past  two  days  and  nights  spent  with  him. 

Just  as  her  old  gray  horse  fumbled  his  way  into 
the  open  lane  at  the  edge  of  town,  she  saw  a  man 
plodding  against  the  wind,  not  far  ahead  along  the 
roadside.  It  was  'Gene  and  he  was  starting  out 
upon  a  long  walk  to  Martin  Grimes's  place.  With 
a  blow  or  two  of  the  "gad,"  she  urged  the  horse 
past  him.  The  single  glance  she  gave  him  showed 
his  face  red  with  the  cold  and  his  head  bent  against 
the  wind.  As  she  passed  he  looked  up  and  spoke. 

"Howdy,  Justine." 

"Good  evening,  'Gene,"  she  replied,  but  she 
could  hardly  hear  her  own  voice. 

"It's  a  nasty  drive  you  got  ahead  of  you,"  he 
called. 

"O,  I'll  soon  be  home,"  she  responded,  and  he 
was  left  behind. 

For  half  a  mile  there  rang  in  her  ears  the  accus- 
ing words:  "It's  a  nasty  drive  you  got  ahead  of 
you."  What  of  the  walk  ahead  of  him?  Now 


THE    GOOD    OF   EVIL          145 

that  she  had  grown  calm  she  wondered  how  she 
could  have  passed  him  without  asking  him  to  ride 
home.  He  had  been  kind  to  her,  after  all;  he  had 
redeemed  himself  to  some  extent  in  the  past  few 
weeks  and — he  had  not  asked  her  for  the  ride  as 
she  had  feared  he  would.  She  recalled  his  cheery 
greeting  and  his  half-frozen  face  and  then  his 
anxiety  concerning  the  discomfort  ahead  of  her. 
By  no  sign  did  he  show  a  desire  to  annoy  her  with 
his  company.  She  looked  back  over  the  road.  In 
the  twilight,  far  behind,  she  saw  him  trudging 
along,  a  lonely  figure  against  the  sky. 

"It's  a  shame  to  make  him  walk  all  the  way 
home.  He'll  freeze,  and  I  can  just  as  well  take 
him  in  as  not,"  she  said  to  herself,  and  pulled  the 
horse  to  a  standstill,  resolved  to  wait  for  him. 
Then  came  the  fear  that  some  one  might  see  him 
riding  home  with  her.  The  country  would  wonder 
and  would  gossip.  Unsophisticated  country  girl  as 
she  was,  she  knew  and  abhorred  gossip.  Once  a 
good  girl's  name  is  coupled  with  that  of  a  man  in 
the  country,  the  whole  community  shuns  her ;  she  is 
lost.  In  the  country  they  never  forget  and  they 
never  investigate.  Turning  her  face  resolutely  she 
whipped  up,  leaving  him  far  behind. 

While  she  was  stabling  her  horse,  by  the  light 
of  a  lantern,  she  found  herself,  amidst  warm 


i46  THE   SHERRODS 

thoughts  of  Jud,  reproaching  herself  for  the  un- 
kindness  to  this  man  who  hated  her  husband  and 
who  had  sworn  to  be  her  undoing.  She  might  have 
given  him  the  ride,  she  argued  against  herself;  it 
was  so  little  to  give  and  he  was  so  cold.  The  bliz- 
zard was  blowing  in  force  by  this  time,  and  her 
conscience  smote  her  fiercely  as  she  thought  of  him 
forging  along  against  its  blasting  chill.  In  the 
village  Jud  had  purchased  several  suits  of  warm 
underclothes  for  her  and  she  had  placed  the  package 
in  the  seat  beside  her.  Groceries  and  other  neces- 
saries were  beneath  the  seat.  To  her  dismay  and 
grief,  she  found  that  the  package  had  been  in  some 
manner  jolted  from  the  seat  and  was  doubtless  lost 
on  the  road,  miles  back. 

The  next  morning  saw  the  storm  still  raging. 
The  night  just  past  had  been  one  of  the  most  cruel 
the  country  had  ever  known.  Her  first  thought 
was  of  her  stock,  then  of  'Gene  Crawley.  Had  he 
reached  home  safely  or  had  he  been  frozen  out 
there  on  the  open  road?  A  chill  of  fear  and  re- 
morse seized  her  and  she  turned  sick  at  heart.  Jud 
would  not  have  allowed  the  man  to  face  such  a 
storm,  and  if  he  were  frozen  no  one  would  condemn 
her  cruelty  more  bitterly  than  tender-hearted  Jud. 

She  ran  to  the  rear  door  of  her  house,  from 
which  Grimes's  home  on  the  hill  could  be  seen,  a 


THE    GOOD    OF   EVIL          147 

mile  away.  The  gust  of  wind  drove  the  door  open 
as  she  turned  the  knob.  Something  rolled  against 
her  feet.  The  lost  bundle  lay  before  her,  left  there 
in  the  night  by — it  could  have  been  no  other  than 
'Gene  Crawley.  It  was  a  sob  of  honest  thankful- 
ness to  the  poor  wretch  she  had  spurned  in  the 
highway  that  came  from  her  lips  as  she  lifted  the 
package  and  closed  the  door.  For  many  minutes 
she  stood  by  the  window,  clasping  the  bundle  in 
her  arms,  looking  out  into  the  bleak  morning.  A 
feeling  of  relief  surged  up  in  the  multitude  of 
thoughts,  and  tears  stood  in  her  eyes.  Not  only 
had  he  braved  the  blizzard  safely,  hardily,  but  he 
had  traveled  a  mile  or  more  farther  through  the 
freezing  night  to  deliver  at  her  door  the  package 
she  had  lost  from  the  seat  that  might  have  been 
shared  with  him. 

"Did  ye  hear  'bout  'Gene  Crawley?"  asked  Mrs. 
Crane,  later,  when  Justine  came  in  from  the  barn. 
The  old  woman  was  preparing  the  frugal  break- 
fast and  Justine  was  seated  beside  the  stove,  her 
half-frozen  feet  near  the  oven.  A  sickening  terror 
forced  a  groan  from  her  lips,  for  something  told 
her  that  the  news  was  the  worst.  His  body  had 
been  found! 

"What — what  is  it?"  she  whispered. 

"He  whupped  the  daylights  out'n  Jake  Smalley 


148  THE   SHERRODS 

an'  Laz  Dunbar  down  to  the  tollgate  day  'fore 
yest'day.  Mrs.  Brown  wuz  here  las'  night  jest 
'fore  you  got  home,  an'  she  says  her  man  says  'twuz 
the  wust  fight  that  ever  wuz  fit  in  the  county." 

Justine  was  leaning  back  in  her  chair,  her  heart 
throbbing  with  relief. 

"Was — was  he  hurt?"  she  asked,  indefinitely. 

"Who?  'Gene?  Not  a  speck!  But  that  big 
Smalley  wuz  unsensibul  when  'Gene  got  off'n  him. 
Doc  Pollister  says  he  won't  be  able  to  see  out'n 
them  eyes  o'  his'n  fer  over  a  week.  Laz  lit  out  an' 
run  like  a  whitehead  after  'Gene  hit  him  onct.  I'm 
glad  he  didn't  git  hurt  much,  'cause  he's  goin'  to 
be  babtised  down  at  the  crick  tomorrer,  an'  he'd  'a* 
tuck  cold,  shore.  I  tell  you,  that  'Gene  Crawley's 
a  nasty  feller.  Constable  O'Brien's  afeered  to 
serve  the  warrant  on  him." 

"What  was  it  all  about,  Aunt  Sue?" 

"O,  nothin'  much,"  answered  Mrs.  Crane, 
evasively,  suddenly  busying  herself  about  the  stove. 
"I  never  did  see  sitch  a  fire !  It  jest  won't  act  right. 
Where'd  this  wood  come  from,  Jestine  ?" 

"From  the  jack-oak  grove,"  said  Justine.  For 
a  while  she  was  silent,  a  new  impression  forming 
itself  in  her  brain.  Stronger  and  stronger  it  grew 
until  it  became  almost  a  conviction.  "Tell  me 


THE    GOOD    OF   EVIL          149. 

what  the  fight  was  about,"  she  went  on,  breaking  in 
upon  Mrs.  Crane's  chatter. 

"O,  I'd  ruther — er — I  don't  know  fer  shore 
what  it  wuz  about.  Somethin'  Jake  said  to  'Gene, 
I  reckon.  'Gene  fights  'thout  any  real  cause,  y' 
know."  The  old  woman  was  clearly  embarrassed 
and  eager  to  evade  the  explanation. 

"You  do  know  and  you  must  tell  me,"  exclaimed 
Justine,  now  fully  convinced. 

"  'Twon't  do  you  no  special  good,  Jestine,  an'  I 
wouldn't  mind  about  it,  'f  I  wuz  you." 

"Tell  me:  was  it — did  it  have  anything  to  do 
with  me  ?" 

"Didn't  amount  to  nothin' — not  a  thing,"  ex- 
postulated the  other.  "You  know  how  these  fool 
fellers  will  talk." 

"  Did  'Gene  Crawley  say  anything  mean  about 
me?"  she  insisted. 

"No.     'Twuz  jest  the  other  way — er — I  mean 
>> 

"Heavens!  What  did  they  say?  Tell  me! 
What  could  they  say?" 

"I  hadn't  orter  tell  you,  but  I  guess  it's  best  you 
know.  Seems  like  Jake  an'  Laz  met  'Gene  down 
to  the  tollgate  an'  wuz  a  wonderin'  how  you  wuz 
gittin'  along  this  cold  spell.  Jake,  who's  a  low 
down  feller  ef  they  ever  wuz  one,  give  'Gene  the 


150  THE   SHERRODS 

wink  an*  says — now,  this  is  how  Mrs.  Brown  tells 
it — he  says :  * Jud  don't  git  home  much,  does  he  ?' 
'Gene  said  he  didn't  know  an'  he  didn't  give  a 
damn — 'scuse  me,  but  them's  the  words.  'Nen 
Laz  says:  'Now's  yer  time  to  cut  in,  'Gene.  Do 
what  you  said  you  would.  You  cain't  have  a  better 
chanst.'  'Nen  Jake  laughed  an'  said:  'She's  all 
alone  up  yander  an'  I  reckon  she's  purty  dern  lone- 
some. Now's  yer  oppertunity,  'Gene, '  Jest 

then,  Mrs.  Brown  says  her  man  says,  the  fight  be- 
gin. 'Fore  Jake  could  finish  up  sayin'  what  he 
started  out  to  say,  'Gene  lit  into  him  right  an'  left. 
Down  went  Jake  an'  Laz  follered  him.  Jake  wuz 
up  fust,  an'  while  he  wuz  tryin'  to  keep  'Gene  off, 
Laz  broke  fer  the  door  an'  got  away.  But  the  way 
'Gene  did  whup  that  Smalley  feller  wuz  a  caution. 
Mr.  Brown  says  you  could  'a'  heerd  him  beller 
clean  down  to  the  mill." 

"Is  that  all?"  asked  Justine,  breathlessly. 

"Wuzn't  that  almost  enough?  O,  yes;  'Gene 
tole  Jake  an'  everybody  else  there  'at  ef  ever  a  word 
wuz  said  about  you  ag'in,  in  any  shape  er  form  that 
wuzn't  jest  right,  he'd  lick  the  tarnation  soul  out'n 
the  hull  capoodle,  men  an'  women.  He  said  he 
meant  women  when  he  said  women,  an'  ef  he  ever 
heerd  of  one  of  them  talkin'  about  you  er  repeatin' 


THE    GOOD    OF.   EVIL          151 

what  he  said  there  at  the  tollgate  on  your  weddin' 
night,  he'd  jest  lay  her  over  his  knee  an' " 

"Were  there  many  people  at  the  tollgate  when 
the  fight  took  place?"  interrupted  Justine.  She 
was  glowing  with  excitement. 

"The  place  wuz  full,  an'  Mr.  Brown  says  he 
never  did  see  sitch  a  scatterment  as  they  wuz  when 
'Gene  sailed  into  Jake.  Jim  Hardesty  tried  to  git 
under  the  stove,  an'  Uncle  Sammy  Godfrey,  old  as 
he  is,  jumped  clean  over  the  counter  an'  upsot  a 
half  barrel  of  sugar.  Ever'body  run,  an'  nobody 
tried  to  help  Jake,  'cept  Doc  Ramsey's  mother, 
an'  that's  'cause  he  goes  with  Liz  Ramsey.  They 
do  tell  that  that's  sure  to  be  a  match,"  and  then  the 
voluble  Mrs.  Crane  branched  off  into  other  lanes 
of  gossip. 

The  next  Sunday  a  whole  township  saw  Eugene 
Crawley  walk  into  the  little  Presbyterian  church  on 
the  hill  and  nervously  take  a  seat  near  the  stove. 
Mr.  Marks,  the  minister,  was  reading  the  first 
hymn  when  'Gene  plunged  into  this  strange  place, 
and  so  great  was  the  sensation  that  the  reader, 
having  stared  blankly  with  the  remainder  of  the 
witnesses,  resumed  reading  on  the  opposite  page 
and  no  one  was  the  wiser.  At  first  there  was  a 
certain  fear  in  the  hearts  of  all  that  he  had  come 
for  no  other  purpose  than  to  report  the  death  of 


152  THE   SHERRODS 

some  loved  one.  No  one  dreamed  that  he  had 
come  to  attend  divine  worship. 

'Gene,  himself,  was  astonished  by  his  own 
temerity.  It  had  taken  all  his  courage  to  do  it,  and 
he  was  an  humble  man  as  he  sat  stiffly  by  the  stove 
and  looked  at  the  upper  left-hand  corner  of  the 
organ.  If  the  minister  had  uttered  his  name  sud- 
denly, 'Gene  would  have  swooned.  It  was  the  first 
time  he  had  been  inside  the  church  since  a  certain 
Christmas  eve,  twenty  years  before.  When  Deacon 
Asbury  asked  him,  after  service,  if  he  intended  to 
come  regularly,  now  that  he  had  begun,  'Gene's 
reserve  vanished,  and,  transfixing  the  old  gentleman 
with  a  glare,  he  roared : 

"What  is  it  to  you,  you  old  skinflint?  You  don't 
own  the  shebang,  do  you  ?  I'll  come  ef  I  want  to 
an'  you  needn't  meddle  about  it  either." 

In  consequence,  the  whole  community  said  that 
his  conversion  was  out  of  the  question,  and  that  all 
the  pulpits  in  Indiana  could  not  pull  him  out  of  the 
rut  into  which  he  had  fallen.  'Gene,  in  truth,  felt 
that  he  was  not  wanted  in  the  church,  and  he  went 
home  with  the  conviction  that  the  deacon's  inquiry 
was  inspired  by  the  hope  that  such  a  sinner  as  he 
might  not  continue  to  blight  the  sanctuary  with  his 
presence. 

A  day  or  so  later  the  word  was  carried  to  the 


THE    GOOD    OF   EVIL 

tollgate  by  Charlie  Spangler  that  Justine  Sherrod 
was  "sick-a-bed"  and  it  "looked  as  though  she  was 
liable  to  have  lung  fever."  Dr.  Pollister  called  at 
her  house  and  found  her  really  ill.  He  took  her 
in  hand  at  once,  and  instructed  Mrs.  Crane  to  see 
that  she  remained  in  bed  until  he  said  she  could 
get  up. 

"But  who  is  to  take  care  of  the  stock?"  wailed 
the  sick  girl. 

"Mrs.  Crane  and  I  will  see  to  the  stock,  so  don't 
you  worry,  Justine.  You've  got  to  stay  in  bed  or 
Jud'll  be  coming  to  a  funeral  purty  soon,"  observed 
the  doctor,  with  the  best  of  intentions,  but  with 
little  tact.  She  gasped  at  the  thought  that  she 
might  die  and  leave  Jud;  her  illness  had  been  but 
a  trifling  matter  to  her  until  the  grim  old  physician 
so  plainly  told  her  the  truth.  She  realized  that  she 
was  in  danger  and  that  she  wanted  Jud  to  sit  by 
the  bedside. 

"Is  it  so  serious,  doctor?"  she  asked,  anxiously. 

"Not  if  you  stay  in  bed.  Only  a  bad  cold  and 
some  fever,  but  it  has  to  be  looked  after.  You've 
got  good  lungs  or  you'd  be  a  good  deal  wuss." 

Then  he  went  out  and  told  Mrs.  Crane  to  look 
after  her,  and  said  that  he'd  ask  some  one  to  drop 
around  every  day  to  care  for  the  horses,  cows  and 
hogs,  and  to  chop  some  wood  occasionally. 


154  THE   SHERRODS 

% 

As  he  drove  toward  the  village  in  his  rattling 

old  buggy,  he  met  'Gene  Crawley  in  the  road. 

"Whoa!"  he  said  to  the  horse;  and  that  evening 
'Gene  Crawley  was  living  up  to  a  promise  to  "look, 
out  fer  Justine's  stock  and  to  git  up  some  wood 
whenever  she  needed  it." 

When  Mrs.  Crane  told  Justine  that  he  was  to 
come  three  times  a  day  while  she  was  sick,  to  "look 
after  things,"  the  tired,  feverish  girl  shook  her  head 
and  sighed,  but  offered  no  protest  against  the  un- 
welcome fate. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

THE   FINDING  OF   CELESTE. 

JUD  received  several  letters  from  her,  telling 
him  that  she  was  ill,  but  getting  better,  and 
that  the  neighbors  were  very  kind  to  her. 
He  replied  that  he  would  come  home  if  she  needed 
him,  but  she  insisted  that  it  was  not  necessary.    She 
penned  that  letter,  sitting  up  in  bed.     She  wanted 
him,  she  hungered  for  him,  she  suffered  in  longing 
for  one  touch  of  his  hand. 

By  this  time  Sherrod  had  formed  many  acquaint- 
ances and  had  at  last  been  persuaded  to  join  an  art- 
ists' club.  The  cost  was  not  much,  and  he  found 
great  pleasure  in  the  meetings.  His  salary  had 
been  increased,  but  his  expenses  grew  correspond- 
ingly. Try  as  he  would,  he  could  find  no  way  to 
curtail  the  cost  of  living.  Sometimes  he  looked 
back  and  wondered  how  he  had  existed  during  the 
first  few  months  in  the  city.  Once  he  tried  the  plan 
of  living  as  humbly  as  he  had  at  first,  but  it  was  an 
utter  impossibility.  The  worst  feature  was  that 
he  could  send  Justine  but  little  money,  nor  could  he 
see  his  way  clear  for  bringing  her  to  the  city.  He 
was  bitter  against  himself.  He  loved  her;  no  other 


156  THE   SHERRODS 

woman  tempted  him  from  that  devotion.  But  there 
seemed  to  be  no  way  of  making  a  home  for  her  in 
Chicago.  The  honest  fellow  did  not  perceive  the 
fact  that  selfishness  was  the  weight  which  drew  his 
intentions  out  of  balance. 

His  companions  liked  him  all  the  more  because 
he  was  unswerving  in  his  resolve  to  touch  no  liquor. 
He  went  with  them  to  bars  and  wine  rooms,  but  he 
never  touched  wines,  nor  did  other  vices  tempt  him. 
Up  in  his  room  at  the  lodging  house  hung  a  picture 
he  had  drawn  after  reading  the  story  of  a  man's 
downfall.  He  called  it  "Wine,  Women,  Woe." 

He  had  now  allowed  his  friends  to  believe  him 
unmarried  so  long  that  it  was  next  to  impossible  to 
explain.  They  alluded  frequently  to  the  sweetheart 
down  in  the  country,  and  he  smiled  as  if  to  say:  "I 
don't  mind  being  teased  about  her."  ^e  made  no 
one  his  confidant  and  no  one  asked  questions.  The 
boys  took  it  for  granted  that  some  day  he  would 
marry  "the  girl  down  there,"  and  said  nothing. 
He  laughed  when  he  thought  of  the  surprise  in 
store  for  them  some  day.  This  thought  usually 
took  him  back  to  the  day  at  Proctor's  Falls  when 
Celeste  had  spoken  of  him  and  Justine  as  sweet- 
hearts and  had  given  him  fifty  dollars  with  which  to 
buy  her  a  wedding  present.  The  name  and  face  of 
the  donor  had  haunted  him  ever  since  that  day.  Her 


THE   FINDING    OF    CELESTE  157, 

card  was  in  his  pocketbook.  Somewhere  in  this 
great  city  she  lived  and,  he  was  beginning  to  know, 
left  other  cards  in  the  halls  of  her  friends  every  day 
— ordinary  cards;  not  like  this  that  had  made  a 
man's  career.  But  there  seemed  to  be  no  chance  to 
tell  her  the  difference.  He  had  not  seen  her. 

One  of  the  fellows  at  the  club  was  Converse,  a 
rich  young  man  with  a  liking  for  art  and  the  will  to 
cultivate  a  rather  mediocre  talent.  He  took  a  fancy 
to  the  handsome  young  newspaper  man,  and  invited 
him  to  his  home  on  the  South  Side.  One  evening 
late  in  March  he  dined  with  Converse  and  his  pa- 
rents. Douglass  Converse  was  an  only  child  and 
was  little  more  than  a  boy  in  years.  The  home  in 
Michigan  Avenue  was  beautiful  and  its  occupants 
lived  luxuriously.  The  dinner  over,  the  two  young 
men  lounged  in  Converse's  "den" — a  room  which 
astonished  and  delighted  Jud — smoking  and  chat- 
ting idly. 

"Funny  you  don't  drink,  Sherrod,"  said  Con- 
verse, quizzically. 

"I  took  a  pledge  once,  and  I  expect  to  keep  it." 

"Always?" 

"Always." 

"Pledge  to  your  mother,  I  suppose?" 

"No;  to  a  girl  who— lives  down  there." 


158  THE   SHERRODS 

"Oho,  that's  the  first  bit  of  sentiment  I  ever 
heard  from  you.  A  sweetheart,  eh?" 

"Well,  I  can't  deny  it,"  said  Jud,  ashamed  of  his 
equivocation. 

"Tell  me  about  her,"  cried  his  friend,  enthusias- 
tically. 

"There's  nothing  to  tell.  I  had  a  letter  from 
her  to-day." 

"Then  it's  still  on?" 

"I  hope  so,"  answered  Jud,  smiling  mysteriously. 

"You're  devilishly  uncommunicative.  If  I  had  a 
sweetheart  who  could  make  me  live  up  to  a  promise 
like  that,  I'd  be  only  too  glad  to  sing  her  praises  to 
the  sky." 

"Fall  in  love  with  some  good,  true  girl,  old  fel- 
low, and  see  how  much  you'll  tell  the  world  about 
it,"  said  Jud,  cleverly  dodging  the  point. 

"I  am  in  love  and  with  the  best  girl  in  the  world, 
but  what  good  does  it  do  me?  She's  not  in  love 
with  me.  Confound  the  luck,  I'm  younger  than 
she  is,"  cried  Converse,  ruefully.  Sherrod  laughed 
and  puffed  dreamily  at  his  cigar  for  a  few  moments. 

"It's  a  crime  to  be  young,  I  presume,"  he  said, 
as  if  obliged  to  reopen  the  conversation.  Converse 
was  standing  at  his  desk,  looking  at  a  photograph. 

"Don't  give  up  because  you  are  young.  You'll 
outgrow  it.  I  was  very  young  when — when — I 


THE   FINDING    OF    CELESTE  159 

mean,  I  was  younger  than  you  by  several  years 
when  I  first  fell  in  love,"  went  on  Jud,  confusedly. 

"But,  I  have  no  chance,  you  know,"  said  the 
other,  boyishly. 

"Prefers  another?" 

"Don't  know;  I  haven't  had  the  courage  to  ask. 
She  thinks  I'm  a  nice  boy  and  such  good  company. 
Girls  don't  say  those  things  about  the  fellow  they 
care  for  seriously.  I'd  rather  be  anything  than  a 
nice  boy." 

"Is  that  her  photograph?" 

"Yes.     Isn't  she  a  dream?" 

The  owner  of  the  den  passed  the  portrait  to  his 
guest.  Converse  was  surprised  to  see  him  start 
violently  and  then  pass  his  hand  over  his  eyes  as 
if  brushing  away  some  form  of  doubt. 

"This  is — this  is  Miss  Wood?"  asked  Sherrod 
at  last. 

"Do  you  know  her?  If  you  do,  you  can't  won- 
der that  I'm  hard  hit,"  cried  the  other. 

"I  met  her  once  down  near  my  old  home.  One 
doesn't  forget  a  face  like  hers.  So  I  find  her,  after 
all,  and  the  sweetheart  of  my  best  friend,"  Jud  was 
saying,  hazily. 

"Oh,  no!  Don't  put  it  that  way.  She'd  fall 
dead  if  any  one  suddenly  intimated  that  such  a  re- 


160  THE   SHERRODS 

lationship  existed — keel  over  with  surprise.  But 
have  you  never  seen  her  more  than  once  ?" 

"Just  once.  She  bought  the  first  picture  I  ever 
sold." 

"Great  Caesar!  Are  you  the  fellow  who  drew  a 
picture  of  a  waterfall  somewhere  and  sold  it  to  her 
for  fifty  dollars?"  Converse  was  staring  at  Jud 
with  eager  eyes. 

"I'm  the  one  who  imposed  upon  her,"  said  Jud, 
lamely. 

"Then,  you're  the  good-looking  country  boy  with 
the  beautiful  sweetheart  that  Celeste  talked  so 
much  about.  Well,  this  beats  the " 

"Celeste?  Is  that  her  name?"  cried  Jud,  sitting 
bolt  upright. 

"Yes.  Her  mother  is  French — she  was  a  count- 
ess, by  the  way.  Celeste  has  that  picture  hanging 
in  her  den — and  her  den  is  a  wonder,  too — and  she 
never  fails  to  tell  about  that  little  experience  down 
in  Indiana.  She'll  be  crazy  to  meet  you." 

Jud's  heart  gave  a  leap.  He  was  bewildered  in 
a  tumult  of  emotions.  The  recognition  of  the  por- 
trait, the  mysterious  coincidence  in  names — the  one 
his  imagination  had  given  her,  and  the  one  she 
bore;  the  thoughts  that  she  remembered  him  and 
Justine ;  that  his  picture  hung  in  her  den ;  that  she 


THE   FINDING    OF    CELESTE  161 

might  really  be  glad  to  see  him.  Impossibilities 
upon  impossibilities! 

"My  picture  in  her  den?"  he  managed  to  stam- 
mer, feeling  sure  that  his  friend  could  detect  an 
emotion  that  might  require  explanation. 

"Sure — most  prominent  thing  in  the  room.  She 
says  the  boy  who  drew  it  will  be  a  master  some  day. 
The  trouble  is,  she  forgot  your  name.  She  says 
she'd  know  your  face  or  the  girl's  anywhere,  but 
the  name  is  gone.  By  George,  this  will  please  her." 

The  girl's !  Jud's  thoughts  flew  back  to  Justine, 
tenderly,  even  resentfully,  for  why  should  this  care- 
less city  maid  speak  of  her  as  "the  girl"? 

"I'll  take  you  to  call,  Sherrod.  I  know  she'll  be 
glad  to  see  you,  and  I'll  surprise  her.  This  is  great ! 
Let's  see:  I'll  say  you  are  a  particular  friend,  but 
I'll  not  give  up  your  name.  She'd  remember  it.  I 
can  see  her  now  when  she  first  gazes  upon  your  face. 
Great!" 

Jud  went  home  that  night  in  a  delightful  torture 
of  anticipation.  After  all  these  months  of  waiting 
and  watching,  fate — nothing  less  than  fate — was  to 
bring  him  to  her  side  with  the  long  unspoken  words 
of  gratitude  and  joy.  What  would  she  be  like? 
How  would  she  look  ?  How  would  she  be  dressed  ? 
Not  in  that  familiar  gray  of  his  memory,  to  be  sure, 
but — but — and  so  he  wondered,  as  he  tossed  in  his 


162  THE   SHERRODS 

bed  that  night.  It  would  be  some  days  before  Con- 
verse could  take  him  to  the  home  of  Miss  Wood, 
and  until  then  he  must  be  content  with  imaginings. 
One  thing  worried  him.  Just  before  he  left  his 
friend,  Douglass  had  asked  with  an  unhidden  con- 
cern in  his  voice : 

"You're  sure  you've  got  a  sweetheart  down 
there?" 

Jud's  heart  stopped  beating  for  a  second.  Some- 
thing within  him  urged  him  to  cry  out  that  he  had 
no  sweetheart,  but  a  loving,  loyal  wife.  But  the 
old  spirit  of  timidity  conquered. 

"I  am  sure  I  had  one,"  he  replied,  and  his  heart 
throbbed  with  relief. 

"And  you're  the  kind  of  a  fellow  who'll  stick  to 
her,  too.  I  know  you  well  enough  to  say  that,"  said 
the  other  warmly,  as  if  some  odd  misgiving  had 
passed  from  his  mind. 

"Thanks  for  the  good  opinion,"  said  Jud,  a  great 
lump  clogging  his  throat. 

And  when  at  last  he  slept,  his  dreams  were  of  the 
old  days  and  Justine,  and  how  lonely  he  was  with- 
out her — how  lonely  she  must  be  down  there  in  the 
cold,  dark  night — sick,  perhaps,  and  longing  for 
him.  In  his  dream  they  were  at  Proctor's  Falls, 
then  in  Chicago,  then  she  was  beside  him  in  the  bed. 
His  arm,  moved  by  dream  love,  stretched  out  and 


THE   FINDING    OF    CELESTE  163 

drew  her  close  to  his  breast  and  there  were  no  scores 
of  miles  between  his  tranquil  heart  and  that  of  the 
girl  he  worshiped. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

"MY  TRUEST   COMRADE." 

HE  LOOKED  forward  to  the  meeting  with 
Miss  Wood  as  if  it  were  to  be  one  of  the 
epochs  in  his  life.  An  odd  fear  took  pos- 
session of  him — cowardice,  inspired  by  the  knowl- 
edge that  he  was  not  of  her  world.  Once  again  he 
felt  like  the  crude,  ignorant  country  boy,  and  he 
trembled  at  the  thought  of  meeting  this  beautiful 
"society  girl"  in  her  own  realm.  In  the  old  days  he 
had  interested  her  as  if  he  were  a  curiosity;  now  he 
was  to  see  her  on  different  grounds.  He  was  to  sub- 
mit to  an  inspection  which  he  knew  he  was  not  yet 
able  to  endure.  As  the  night  drew  near  for  the 
visit  to  her  home,  as  arranged  by  the  glowing  Con- 
verse, self-consciousness  overpowered  him.  What 
would  she  think  of  him? 

Converse  rushed  in  one  day  and  told  him  that  he 
had  just  seen  Miss  Wood  on  the  street — in  fact 
had  ridden  several  blocks  in  her  carriage — and  that 
a  strange  coincidence  was  to  be  related.  She  was 
driving  to  the  Art  Institute  with  his  drawing  of 
Proctor's  Falls.  She  had,  through  some  influence 
of  her  own,  obtained  permission  to  hang  it  for  a 


"MY    TRUEST    COMRADE"        165 

few  weeks.  No  sooner  had  his  visitor  departed 
than  Jud,  throwing  aside  his  work,  dashed  from 
the  building  and  off  to  the  Institute.  He  hoped 
that  he  might  see  her  there;  at  least,  he  might  again 
look  upon  that  humble  sketch  as  it  hung  among 
the  aristocratic  lordlings  of  art.  She  was  not  there, 
but  he  managed  to  find  his  picture.  A  man  was 
placing  it  in  a  rather  conspicuous  place  on  the  wall. 

"New  picture,  eh?"  Jud  asked,  assuming  indif- 
ference. 

"Yes.  It  beats  the  devil  how  the  management 
lets  cranks,  just  because  they're  pretty,  come  in  here 
and  hang  chromos.  Look  at  that.  Wouldn't  that 
jar  you?  Lead  pencil  and  crayon,  and  as  cheap 
as  mud.  Next  thing  we  know  they'll  be  hanging 
patent  medicine  ads  in  here." 

Jud  walked  away.  He  never  forgot  that  half 
minute  of  impersonal  criticism.  As  he  was  hurry- 
ing from  the  building  he  saw  a  carriage  drive 
swiftly  from  the  curb  below.  For  one  brief  instant 
he  had  a  glimpse  of  a  face  inside — one  that  he  had 
never  forgotten. 

She  drove  toward  State  Street,  in  the  direction 
of  the  big  stores  to  the  north.  Hoping  for  another 
glimpse  of  her,  he  followed.  From  afar  he  saw 
her  enter  her  carriage  and  whirl  away  toward  the 
river  and  her  North  Side  home.  Then  he  went  back 


166  THE   SHERRODS 

to  work  and  to  the  letter  he  was  writing  to  Justine. 
It  teemed  with  references  to  the  fairy  of  Proctor's 
Falls. 

The  next  evening  but  one  found  him  ready  for 
the  call,  but  very  nervous.  He  felt  that  he  was 
taking  a  step  into  the  world  in  which  he  might  not 
be  fit  to  hold  a  place;  a  world  which  would  stare 
curiously  at  him  as  a  gifted  plebeian,  and  shut  its 
doors  upon  him  when  the  novelty  had  died. 

He  dressed  himself  laboriously  for  the  event. 
It  was  to  be  his  introduction  into  select  society, 
and  he  must  not  let  that  be  the  occasion  for  the 
faintest  twinkle  of  mirth  in  the  eyes  of  those  to 
the  manner  born.  At  the  Athletic  Club  he  met 
Converse,  who  looked  him  over  admiringly.  If 
Converse  had  purposed  exhibiting  him  to  Miss 
Wood  as  a  matter  of  entertainment  for  one  night, 
the  plan  was  not  feasible.  Instead  of  the  careless 
artist  or  the  unsophisticated  youth,  there  appeared 
a  straight,  strong  figure,  a  clean-cut  face,  keen  and 
handsome.  Indeed,  Converse  found  himself  envy- 
ing Jud's  dignity  of  manner.  He  did  not  know 
that  the  apathy  of  the  person  who  rode  beside  him 
was  the  composure  of  extreme  dread.  Almost  be- 
fore Jud  was  aware  of  it,  he  was  inside  the  Wood 
drawing-room,  awaiting  the  appearance  of  its  mis- 
tress. Through  the  maze  he  could  barely  remem- 


"MY    TRUEST    COMRADE"        167 

her  passing  an  august  personage  who  opened  the 
doors  to  them  and  who  said  that  Miss  Wood  was 
expecting  Mr.  Converse.  Then  he  found  himself 
sitting  in  a  gorgeous  apartment,  blankly  listening 
to  the  undertones  of  his  friend,  and  responding 
with  mechanical  calmness,  so  that  Converse  mar- 
veled again  at  his  conventional  bearing.  That 
young  man  was  delighted  with  the  surprise  he  had 
in  store  for  the  girl  he  loved. 

She  came  into  the  room  suddenly  and  unex- 
pectedly, and  the  two  men  arose — one  with  a 
laugh,  the  other  with  serious,  questioning  eyes. 
Miss  Wood  gave  Converse  her  hand  and  turned  to 
Jud  with  the  smile  which  precedes  an  introduction. 
He  detected  the  instantaneous  gleam  of  inquiry, 
strengthened  presently  to  perplexity  and  wonder. 

"Let  me  present "  began  Converse,  but  she 

restrained  him  quickly.  There  was  now  an  intent- 
ness  in  her  gaze  that  brought  the  blood  to  Jud's 
face. 

"I  know  your  face — don't  speak,  Douglass. 
Will  you  let  me  guess — let  me  think?  Pardon  my 
extraordinary  behavior,  but  I  am  so  sure  I  know 
you.  I  have  seen  you  often,  very  often,  I  know. 
You  are — oh,  dear,  how  embarrassing!  Yes,  yes, 
I  know  now!"  Her  eyes  fairly  danced  with  the 
joy  of  discovery  and  she  impulsively  came  to  him 


i68  THE   SHERRODS 

with  hand  outstretched.  "You  are  the  artist — the 
boy  who  drew  the  picture !" 

"Yes,  you  have  guessed,"  said  Jud. 

"I  knew  your  face.  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you. 
And  you  are  living  out  my  prophecy,  too.  Where 
is  the  country  boy  now?  What  did  I  tell  you?" 
She  stood  before  him,  her  eyes  looking  squarely  up 
into  his  face,  bright  with  smiles. 

"I  am  trying  to  merit  the  recommendation  you 
gave  me,  but  I  am  afraid  I'll  fail,"  said  he. 

"Fail?"  cried  Converse.  "You've  made  a  sen- 
sational hit,  Sherrod,  and  you  owe  it  to  this  prophet 
in  petticoats.  She  made  you.  If  it  hadn't  been  for 
her,  you'd  be  down  there  in  the  woods  plowing 
hay  and  digging  cucumbers  and  nobody'd  know 
you  were  on  earth.  If  I  were  you  I'd  jump  up  and 
crack  my  heels  together,  and  yell  like  a  cannibal. 
That's  how  happy  I'd  feel." 

The  boy's  excitement  was  contagious,  and  Jud 
began  to  lose  some  of  his  embarrassment. 

"I  am  happy,  and  I'd  like  to  shout  my  gratifica- 
tion to  Miss  Wood,"  he  said.  "She  fairly  drove 
me  to  some  sort  of  action.  Without  her  encourage- 
ment I'm  sure  nothing  could  have  induced  me  to 
try  my  luck  here." 

"Oh,  you  would  have  discovered  yourself  some 
day.  Genius  like  yours  would  sooner  or  later  h^ve 


"A4T    TRUEST    COMRADE"        169 

become  a  master  and  compelled  you  to  obey.  I 
merely  poked  you  until  you  awoke  from  the  dreams 
and  began  to  see  things  as  they  are.  And  are  you 
really  living  in  Chicago?" 

Then  she  compelled  him  to  tell  her  all  about 
himself,  his  work,  and  his  plans.  She  was  so 
deeply  interested  that  his  heart  glowed.  As  he  sat 
and  talked  with  her,  forgetting  that  Converse  was 
present,  he  felt  himself  gradually  lulled  into  secu- 
rity, like  that  of  a  traveler  who  has  crept  along 
the  edge  of  a  precipice  for  miles  and  has  reached  a 
haven  from  which  he  can  look  back  and  laugh  at 
the  terrors. 

For  an  hour  they  conversed,  seriously,  merrily 
about  his  experiences  in  the  city.  He  was  a  true 
gentleman,  therefore  modest;  the  pronoun  "I"  was 
used  as  sparingly  as  possible,  and  there  was  an 
absence  of  egotism  that  charmed  his  new-found 
friend.  He  was  beginning  to  realize  the  success 
he  had  achieved  in  the  city,  but  one  look  into  his 
honest  gray  eyes  proved  that  he  was  no  bragga- 
docio. She  saw  that  she  could  safely  compliment 
him  on  his  progress;  she  compared  him  as  he  sat 
before  her  with  the  country  boy  she  had  first  known, 
when  she  told  him  that  she  knew  then  that  he  was  a 
great  diamond  that  needed  little  polishing.  The 
magnificence  of  his  surroundings,  the  beauty  of  his 


170  THE   SHERRODS 

hostess,  the  subtle  influence  of  splendor,  softened 
his  first  rough  feelings  of  apprehension  into  the 
mellow  confidence  of  ease  and  urbanity.  It  was 
all  so  strange  and  sweet  that  he  lived  it  over  and 
over  again  in  the  days  that  followed,  before  he 
could  convince  himself  that  he — poor  Jud  Sherrod 
— had  not  really  been  in  fairyland. 

There  was  no  questioning  the  sincerity  of  her 
admiration.  Converse  sat  back  and  jealously 
watched  the  light  in  her  eyes,  and  listened  to  the 
new  fervor  in  her  voice  as  she  talked  to  the  man 
whose  demeanor  plainly  indicated  that  he  con- 
sidered her  his  guiding  star  in  the  journey  from 
obscurity  to  light. 

"O,  yes,"  she  cried,  suddenly,  a  taunting  gleam 
coming  to  her  eyes,  "I  have  forgotten  something 
quite  important.  What  has  become  of  the  beauti- 
ful sweetheart?  I  never  saw  a  prettier  girl.  Is 
she  still  down  there?" 

For  a  moment  the  spell  was  broken.  He  caught 
his  breath.  He  had  forgotten  Justine — his  own 
Justine!  His  composure  fled,  his  eyes  wavered 
before  the  laughing  eyes  of  his  inquisitor.  His 
lips  parted  with  the  impulse  to  blurt  out  that  she 
was  his  wife,  when  he  remembered  Converse.  He 
had  led  Converse  with  the  others  to  consider  him 
unmarried,  unintentionally  and  innocently  he  knew 


"MY    TRUEST   COMR4DE"        171 

down  in  his  heart.  His  helpless  looks  from  one  to 
the  other  showed  such  unmistakable  signs  of  embar- 
rassment that  Miss  Wood  hastily  sought  to  relieve 
the  situation,  fearing  she  had  committed  a  painful 
blunder. 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  It  is  not  my  affair  and 
I "  she  began,  but  Converse,  obtuse  and  re- 
joicing in  Jud's  discomfiture,  interrupted. 

"O,  she's  still  there,  all  right,  all  right.  Look  at 
his  blushes !  I  wish  I  had  the  luck  he  has." 

"Douglass  Converse,  I'll  send  you  to  the  library 
if  you  don't  keep  quiet.  I  hope  you  will  pardon 
my  natural  curiosity,  Mr.  Sherrod,"  she  said, 
gravely. 

Sherrod  caught  his  breath  again  and  battled 
for  an  instant  with  something  in  his  throat,  then 
allowed  a  deeper  flush  to  follow  the  first — the  flush 
that  comes  with  criminal  bravery. 

"I  don't  mind  telling  you  about  her.  She  still 
lives  down  at  my  old  home  and  often  writes  to  me 
about  you,  wondering  whether  I  have  seen  you," 
he  said  in  a  hard  voice,  fully  resolved  to  deceive 
for  the  time  being. 

"Don't  forget  to  let  me  know  what  she  says 
when  you  tell  her  you  have  really  seen  me.  I  am 
so  interested  in  her.  What  is  her  name?" 


172  THE    SHERRODS 

Without  a  moment's  hesitation  he  took  the 
plunge. 

"Justine  Van." 

"What  an  odd  name.  Yet  she  was  an  odd 
looking  girl.  Her  beauty  was  so  different,  so  fresh, 
so  pure.  I  hope  the  gay  life  of  the  city  is  not 
turning  you  away  from  that  jewel  down  there.  O, 
I  know  what  the  city  does  for  young  men  who  come 
from  the  country.  It  usually  spoils  them.  They 
forget  the  best,  the  truest  part  of  their  lives,  and 
they  let  new  faces  drive  out  the  old  and  loving 


ones." 


"I — I  don't  think  you  quite  understand  the  situa- 
tion," floundered  Jud,  moved  to  contrition.  Had 
she  not  interrupted  at  that  instant,  he  would  have 
told  the  truth. 

"It  is  easier  to  understand  than  you  think,"  she 
said.  "You  are  up  here,  she  is  there.  You  are  a  new 
man  with  new  ideas,  new  possibilities,  new  hopes; 
she  is  the  same  sweet,  innocent  country  girl,  no 
farther  advanced  than  she  was  the  day  you  left  her. 
You  have  gone  forward,  she  stands  still.  You  are 
Dudley  Sherrod,  the  most  promising  of  young 
artists,  with  popularity  ready  to  leap  at  you ;  she  is 
the  common  lass  of  the  fields,  honest  and  true,  un- 
known except  to  the  people  who  live  nearby.  You 
are  up  here,  thrown  with  bright  men,  and  perhaps 


TRUEST    COMRADE"        173 

with  clever  women,  while  she  is  back  there  with 
the  farmers  and  the  farmers'  wives.  You  have 
every  opportunity  to  be  somebody;  she  will  always 
be  nobody  unless  she  is  lifted  from  that  mire  of 
inactivity.  Don't  you  see  how  well  I  understand 
the  situation?  You  have  every  advantage,  she  has 
none.  Yes,  Mr.  Sherrod,  you  are  living  out  the 
promise  I  made  for  you  months  ago,  and  you  are 
winning  only  what  is  yours  by  right.  But  you  must 
not  forget  that  there  are  few  such  jewels  here  as 
the  one  you  left  behind  when  you  sought  treasures 
in  the  world." 

"That's  the  neatest  lecture  I  ever  heard, 
Celeste,"  cried  Converse,  admiringly.  "You  musn't 
forget  to  go  back  and  polish  up  the  jewel,  Sherrod. 
That's  what  she  means,  in  few  words." 

Jud  feared  that  both  were  laughing  at  him  and 
resented  it. 

"I  am  sure  Miss  Wood  has  said  nothing  that  is 
untrue  concerning  Justine  Van.  She  is  the  noblest 
girl  I  ever  knew,"  he  said,  deliberately.  "She  is  far 
above  me  in  every  way.  She  has  more  reason  to 
stoop  to  me  than  I  to  her.  She  is  my  best  friend." 

"Friend?"  echoed  Miss  Wood. 

"My  truest  comrade,"  said  he.  The  perspiration 
started  on  his  forehead. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

ONE    HEART    FOR    TWO. 

THE  passing  of  two  months  saw  Sherrod  a 
constant,    even   a   privileged,    visitor   at 
the  Wood  home.    In  that  time  he  visited 
the  cottage  in  Indiana  but  once,  and  on  that  occa- 
sion glowingly  related  to  Justine  the  story  of  his 
first  visit  to  the  goddess  and  of  her  subsequent  in- 
terest in  his  affairs. 

Just  now  he  was  beginning  to  realize  the  conse- 
quences of  his  deception.  Affairs  had  reached  the 
stage  where  it  seemed  next  to  impossible  to  ac- 
knowledge his  marriage  to  Justine,  and  he  certainly 
could  not  tell  that  honest,  trusting  wife  of  his 
unfortunate  duplicity.  He  loved  her  too  deeply  to 
inflict  the  wound  that  such  a  confession  would  make, 
and  yet  he  could  see  that  delay  would  only  increase 
the  violence  of  the  shock  should  she  learn  of  his 
mistake,  innocently  conceived,  but  unwisely  fos- 
tered. 

Justine  also  had  a  secret.  When  he  was  ready 
to  take  her  to  the  city,  she  would  confess  to  him 
that  'Gene  Crawley  was  to  farm  the  place  for  her 
that  spring  and  summer,  working  it  on  shares. 


ONE   HEART   FOR    TWO        175 

He  was  to  use  his  own  team,  for  her  horses  had 
died  of  influenza.  So  little  did  Jud  know  of  the 
old  home  place  now  that  he  did  not  recognize 
Crawley's  horses  in  the  stable,  nor  could  he  see 
that  a  man's  hand  had  performed  wonders  in  the 
field.  He  was  thinking  of  Chicago  and  the  miser- 
able broil  in  which  his  affairs  were  involved.  Jus- 
tine induced  Crawley  to  remain  away  from  the 
farm  during  Jud's  stay,  an  undertaking  which 
required  some  force  of  persuasion.  Crawley  wanted 
to  make  peace  with  Jud  and  to  assure  him  of  his 
good  faith;  he  begged  her  to  let  him  apologize  to 
his  old  adversary  and  ask  him  to  shake  hands  and 
say  quits.  But  she  knew  that  Jud  would  not  under- 
stand and  that  there  could  be  no  forgiveness.  Never 
in  her  life  had  she  loved  Jud  as  in  these  days  when 
she  was  disobeying  and  deceiving  him.  While  she 
knew  that  'Gene  was  no  longer  the  brute  and  the 
blackguard  of  old,  she  saw  that  her  husband  could 
look  upon  him  only  as  he  had  known  him. 

The  farm  was  bound  to  do  well  this  year  and  she 
was  happy  to  give  Jud  that  assurance.  Once  he 
caught  her  looking  wistfully  at  him  when  he  was 
telling  of  expected  triumphs  in  the  city.  He  knew 
that  she  was  hoping  he  would  say  that  she  could 
soon  go  with  him  to  the  city,  leaving  the  farm  to 


176  THE   SHERRODS 

care  for  itself.     But  how  could  he  take  rur  there 
now?    He  groaned  with  the  shame  of  it. 

A  week  of  sleepless  nights  followed  this  visit  to 
Clay  township.  The  young  artist's  work  on  the 
paper  suffered  and  his  fellows  advised  him  to  take 
a  rest.  He  had  had  no  vacation  since  taking  the 
position  many  months  before.  But  it  was  not 
overwork  that  told  on  him ;  it  was  the  lying  awake 
of  nights  striving  to  find  a  way  out  of  his  predica- 
ment without  losing  the  respect  of  all  these  friends, 
especially  that  of  one  whom  he  admired  so  deeply. 
He  had  permitted  her  to  believe  him  free  and  had 
behaved  as  a  free  man  behaves  to  such  an  extent 
that  explanations  were  impossible.  To  tell  her  the 
truth  concerning  the  man  she  had  gone  to  the 
theatre  with,  had  lunched  with  in  downtown  restau- 
rants, had  entertained  in  her  own  home  almost  to 
the  exclusion  of  others,  could  bring  but  one  end— 
the  scorn  and  detestation  he  deserved. 

Poor  Converse  had  given  up  the  conflict  in 
despair,  but,  good  fellow  that  he  was,  held  no 
grudge  against  Sherrod,  for  whom  he  had  genuine 
admiration.  They  were  lunching  together  a  week 
or  two  after  his  trying  trip  to  Clay  township,  and 
Jud  was  so  moody  that  Converse  took  note  of  it. 
As  they  sat  at  the  table,  Converse  mentally  observed 
that  his  friend  was  growing  handsomer  every  day ; 


ONE    HEART   FOR    TWO         177 

the  moods  improved  him.  After  a  long  silence,  the 
artist  said: 

"I  had  an  offer  to-day  to  do  some  book  illustrat- 
ing for  a  publishing  house." 

"Good!  That's  the  stuff!  Book  pictures  will 
be  your  line,  old  man.  Will  you  accept?" 

"I'm  afraid  I'd  be  a  failure,"  said  Jud,  gloomily. 

"Is  that  what's  the  matter  with  you  ?" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  demanded  the  other, 
quickly. 

"O,  your  grumpiness.  You've  been  all  out  of 
sorts  for  a  couple  of  weeks,  you  know — or  maybe 
you  don't.  But  you  have,  anyway.  I  never  saw  a 
fellow  change  as  you  have  in — in,  well,  ten  days." 

"I  don't  understand  why  you  think  so.  Every- 
thing is  all  right  with  me,"  said  Jud,  shortly. 

"Maybe  you're  off  your  feed  a  bit." 

"Never  was  better  in  my  life." 

"Well,  it's  darned  queer.  You  act  like  a  man 
whose  liver  is  turning  mongrel.  Why,  you  ought 
to  be  satisfied.  You've  made  a  big  hit  here  and 
you'll  soon  be  getting  the  biggest  salary  of  any 
newspaper  artist  in  town.  You  have  been  elected  to 
the  Athletic  Club,  you  have  been  invited  to  lecture 
before  some  of  the  clubs,  you've  got  plenty  of  coin 
to  throw  at  birds,  so  why  don't  you  rub  those 
wrinkles  from  between  your  eyes?" 


178  THE    SHERRODS 

Jud  laughed  rather  mirthlessly,  without  taking 
his  eyes  from  the  coffee  which  he  was  stirring. 

"Wrinkles  don't  come  because  you  want  them, 
but  because  you  don't." 

"Well,  old  chap,  I'm  sure  something  is  worrying 
you.  Can  I  help  you  in  any  way?"  went  on  his 
generous  friend. 

"Thanks,  Doug;  you  can  help  me  to  another 
lump  of  sugar." 

"The  devil  take  you,"  cried  Converse,  handing 
him  the  bowl.  "Say,"  he  said,  a  moment  later, 
watching  Jud  as  he  calmly  buttered  his  bread,  "1 
believe  there's  a  woman  in  it." 

"A  woman!"  exclaimed  the  other,  almost  drop- 
ping his  knife.  For  an  instant  his  gray  eyes  seemed 
to  look  through  the  other's  brain.  "What  are  you 
driving  at,  Doug?"  he  went  on,  controlling  him- 
self. 

"I'm  next  to  you  at  last,  old  man.  You're  in  a 
deuce  of  a  boat.  You're  in  love." 

"And  if  I  were,  I  can't  see  why  I  should  have  to 
hire  a  boat." 

"It's  all  right  to  talk  that  way,  but  you  are  in 
the  boat,  just  the  same.  Maybe  it's  a  raft,  though, 
and  maybe  you're  shipwrecked.  You  are  one  of 
these  unlucky  dogs  who  find  out  that  they  love  the 
second  girl  after  having  promised  to  marry  the  first 


ONE   HEART  FOR    TWO        179- 

one.  The  size  of  it  is,  you've  about  forgotten  the 
little  Indiana  girl  you  were  telling  me  about."  For 
a  whole  minute  Jud  stared  at  him,  white  to  the 
lips. 

"You  have  no  right  to  talk  like  that,  Converse," 
he  said,  hoarsely. 

"I  beg  pardon,  Jud;  I  didn't  mean  to  offend. 
Honestly  now,  I  was  talking  to  hear  myself  talk," 
cried  the  other. 

"I  have  not  promised  to  marry  any  one  in  In- 
diana," said  Jud,  slowly,  cruelly,  deliberately. 

"Then,  you  are  free  as  air?"  asked  Converse,  a 
chill  in  his  heart. 

"Or  as  foul,"  said  Sherrod. 

"Sherrod,  is  this  girl  down  in  the  country  in  love 
with  you  ?" 

"You  mean  the  one  I  spoke  of?"  asked  Jud,  his- 
head  swimming. 

"Yes,  the  one  you  spoke  of." 

"My  dear  fellow,  the  girl  I  spoke  of  has  been 
married  for  three  years.  I  am  very  sure  she  loves 
her  husband." 

"Thank  God  for  that,  Jud.  I  was  afraid  you 
were  forgetting  her,  just  as  Celeste  said  you  might. 
It  wouldn't  be  right  to  break  her  heart,  you  know." 

"Excellent  advice,"  said  Jud. 


180  THE   SHERRODS 

"Have  yon  seen  Celeste  since  Sunday?  I  saw 
you  together  at  St.  James'." 

Sherrod  had  already  dropped  four  lumps  into 
his  coffee  and  was  now  adding  another. 

"I  saw  her  last  night.     Why?" 

"  'Gad,  you're  pretty  regular,  aren't  you?"  said 
Converse,  bitter  in  spite  of  himself. 

"It  strikes  me  you  are  talking  rather  queerly." 

"I  presume  I  am.  You'll  forgive  me,  though, 
when  I  remind  you  that  I  care  a  great  deal  for  her. 
It  rather  hurts  to  have  her  forget  me  entirely,"  said 
the  poor  fellow. 

"Come,  come,  old  man,  you're  losing  your 
nerve,"  cried  Jud,  his  eye  brightening.  "I'm  sure 
you  can  win  if  you'll  only  have  heart." 

"Win!  You  know  better  than  that.  If  you 
don't  know  it,  I'll  tell  you  something.  She's  despe- 
rately in  love  with  another  man  at  this  very  min- 
ute." 

"What?"  ejaculated  Jud.  "Miss  Wood  in  love 
with — with — another  man?  Why — why — I've  not 
seen  her  pay  any  especial  attention  to  any  one." 

"You  must  be  blind,  then.  There's  only  one 
man  in  the  world  she  cares  to  see  any  more,  or  cares 
to  have  near  her." 

"Good  heavens,  no!  I  never  suspected — by 
George,  Doug,  surely  you're  dreaming!"  He 


ONE   HEART   FOR    TWQ        181 

could  not  understand  a  certain  jealousy  that  came 
to  him. 

"Can't  you  see  that  she's  in  love  with  you — 
you?"  cried  the  boy. 

The  two  looked  at  each  other  intently  for  a 
moment,  despair  in  the  eyes  of  one,  incredulous  joy 
in  those  of  the  other.  Sherrod  could  feel  the  blood 
rushing  swifter  and  swifter  to  his  heart,  to  his 
throat,  to  his  face,  to  his  eyes.  Something  red  and 
hot  floated  across  his  vision,  turning  the  whole 
world  a  ruddy  hue;  something  strong  and  light 
seemed  striving  to  lift  his  whole  being  in  the  air. 

"Well,  why  don't  you  say  you  don't  believe  it?" 
said  a  voice  in  front  of  him. 

"I — I  can't  say  a  word.  You  paralyze  me.  My 
heavens,  Converse,  I  never  dreamed  of  such  a 
thing  and  I  know  you're  mistaken.  Why,  it  cannot 
be — it  shouldn't  be,"  he  almost  gasped. 

"Bah!  What's  the  use?  Women  don't  ask  per- 
mission to  fall  in  love,  do  they?  They  just  fall, 
that's  all.  I'm  not  saying  it  is  absolutely  true,  but 
I'm  making  a  pretty  fine  guess.  She  is  more  in- 
terested in  you  than  in  any  man  she  has  ever  known. 
I  know  that  much." 

"Interested,  perhaps,  yes,  but  that  is  not  love. 
Hang  it,  Douglass,  she  cares  for  you." 

"'No,  she  doesn't,  Jud ;  no,  she  doesn't.    No  such 


i82  THE   SHERRODS 

luck.  I  don't  appeal  to  her  at  all  and  I  never  can. 
I  step  down  and  out;  you've  a  clear  field  so  far  as 
I  am  concerned.  If  I  can't  have  her,  I'd  rather 
see  her  go  to  you  than  to  any  one  in  the  world. 
You're  good  and  honest  and  a  man." 

"Impossible!  Impossible!  It  can't  be  that. 

You  don't  understand  the  real  situation " 

floundered  Jud. 

"I  understand  it  as  well  as  you  do,  my  boy, — 
better,  I  think.  I  know  Celeste  Wood  and  that's 
.all  there  is  to  it.  You've  won  something  that  a 
hundred  men  have  fought  for  and  lost.  You're  a 
lucky  dog." 

Jud  Sherrod  went  to  his  rooms  that  night,  after 
.a  dizzy  evening  at  the  theatre  and  the  club,  his 
head  whirling  with  the  intoxication  coming  from  a 
mixture  of  rejoicing,  regret,  shame,  apprehension, 
incredulity, — a  hundred  irrepressible  thoughts. 
What  if  Converse's  supposition  should  be  true? 
Then,  what  a  beast  he  had  been!  This  night 
.he  slept  not  a  wink — in  fact,  he  did  not  go  to 
bed.  He  even  thought  of  suicide  as  he  paced 
the  floor  or  buried  his  face  in  the  cushions  on  his 
couch. 

With  it  all  before  him  there  suddenly  came 
uppermost  the  thought  of  his  base  treatment  of 
Justine.  Here  he  was  earning  a  handsome  salary, 


ONE   HEART   FOR    TWO        183. 

living  comfortably  and  cozily,  spending  his  money 
in  the  entertainment  of  another  woman,  leading 
that  other  woman  on  to  what  now  seemed  certain 
unhappiness,  and  all  the  time  neglecting  the  trust- 
ing, loving  wife  even  to  the  point  of  cruelty.  Down 
there  in  the  bleak,  uncouth  country  she  was  strug- 
gling on,  loving  him,  trusting  him,  believing  in  him, 
and  he  was  keeping  himself  afar  off,  looking  on 
with  selfish,  indifferent  eyes.  All  this  grew  worse 
and  worse  as  he  realized  that  of  all  women  he 
loved  none  but  Justine — loved  and  revered  her 
deeper  and  deeper  with  every  hour  and  day. 

As  the  dawn  came,  in  the  eagerness  of  repent- 
ance, he  seized  pen  and  paper  and  wrote  two  letters, 
one  to  Justine,  one  to  Celeste.  To  Justine  he 
poured  forth  his  confession  and  urged  her  to  save 
him,  to  live  with  him,  to  go  with  him  to  another 
city  where  he  could  begin  anew.  To  Celeste  he 
admitted  his  shameful  behavior,  pleaded  for  for- 
giveness, and  asked  her  to  forget  that  he  had  ever 
come  into  her  sweet,  pure  life.  But  he  never  sent 
the  letters. 

His  courage  failed  him.  With  the  temporizing 
weakness  of  the  guilty,  he  destroyed  the  bits  of 
honesty  his  heart  had  inspired,  and  planned  anew* 
feverishly,  sincerely,  almost  buoyantly.  He  would 
see  Celeste  personally  the  next  day  or  night,  tell 


1 84  THE   SHERRODS 

her  all  and  face  her  scorn  as  best  he  could.  He 
would  see  her  once  more — once  more — and  then, — 
Tustine  forever  1 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

THE    FALL    OF    THE    WEAK. 

E  HAD  the  firmest  intention  to  lay  bare 
before  Miss  Wood  the  miserable  facts, 
without  the  faintest  hope  for  pardon. 
He  knew  this  frank,  pure  girl  so  well  by  this  time 
that  her  reception  of  the  humiliating  truth  was  as 
plain  as  day  to  him.  The  esteem  in  which  she 
had  held  him  would  vanish  with  the  first  recovery 
from  the  shock  his  words  would  bring;  all  the 
honors  he  had  won  through  her  instrumentality 
would  turn  to  the  most  despised  of  memories;  all 
that  she  had  done  for  him  would  be  regretted;  the 
dear  companionship,  the  cheer,  the  encouragement, 
all  would  go. 

He  had  not  intended  a  wrong  in  the  beginning. 
In  his  wretched  brain  there  was  the  persistent  cry: 
"You  did  not  think !  You  did  not  know  what  you 
were  doing!  There  was  no  desire  to  gain  by  this 
deception.  You  did  not  intend  to  be  dishonest !" 

It  had  begun  with  the  sly  desire  to  surprise  the 
"boys"  some  happy  day  when  he  could  show  to 
them  the  wife  who  was  his  pride.  Almost  uncon- 
sciously he  had  gone  deeper  into  the  mire  of 


i86  THE   SHERRODS 

circumstances  from  which  he  could  not  now  flounder 
except  with  sullied  honor.  Without  a  thought  as 
to  the  seriousness  of  the  situation,  he  had  allowed 
this  innocent  friend  to  compromise  herself  by  an 
almost  constant  association  with  him.  He  had 
intended  telling  her  the  secret  when  first  he  met 
her,  exacting  a  promise  to  keep  it  from  Converse 
for  a  little  while,  at  least.  She  was  to  be  his  con- 
fidante, his  and  Justine's,  for  he  meant  to  tell  her 
that  the  brave  little  woman  of  Proctor's  Falls  cher- 
ished her  as  ideal,  unknown  but  loved. 

Celeste  had  unconsciously  baffled  all  these  good 
intentions,  building  a  wall  about  the  truth  so  strong 
that  it  could  not  break  through.  It  went  on,  this 
sweet  comradeship,  until  he — a  married  man — was 
looked  upon  by  outsiders  as  the  man  to  whom  this 
unattainable  girl  had  given  her  love.  Converse's 
blunt  assertion  had  given  him  the  first  inkling  of 
the  consequences  the  intimacy  had  engendered. 
Worse  than  all  else,  he  now  realized  how  dear 
Celeste  Wood  had  become  to  him.  On  one  hand, 
Justine  was  his  ideal;  on  the  other  hand,  Celeste 
was  an  ideal.  It  seemed  to  him  as  he  rode  in  a 
hansom  to  the  North  Side  the  next  night  after  his 
talk  with  Converse  that  he  could  not  bear  to  lose 
one  more  than  the  other.  Both  were  made  for  him 
to  adore. 


THE   FALL    OF    THE    WEAK    187 

He  faltered  as  he  mounted  the  steps  at  the  Wood 
home.  At  the  top  he  turned  and  looked  out  over 
the  lake.  A  wild  desire  to  rush  down  and  throw 
himself  over  the  sea-wall  into  the  dark,  slashing 
waters  came  upon  him.  To  go  inside  meant  the 
end  of  happiness  so  far  as  Celeste  Wood  was  con- 
cerned; to  turn  away  would  mean  the  end  of  his 
honor  and  his  conscience. 

As  he  stood  debating  she  opened  the  door  and 
he  was  trapped.  A  dazzling  light  shone  in  upon 
his  darkness  and  he  staggered  forward  deeper  into 
its  warm  radiance,  conscious  only  that  a  deadly  chill 
had  been  cast  off  and  that  he  was  in  the  glow  of  her 
smile. 

In  the  dimly  lighted  hall,  red  and  seductive  from 
the  swinging  lantern  with  its  antique  trappings  and 
scarlet  eyes,  he  removed  his  overcoat  and  threw  it, 
with  his  hat,  upon  the  Flemish  chair.  Slim,  sweet 
and  graceful,  she  looked  up  into  his  somber  face. 
There  was  a  quizzical  smile  on  hers.  And  now, 
for  the  first  time,  he  saw  more  than  friendship  in 
those  violet  eyes.  Plain,  too  plain,  was  the  glint 
that  brightened  the  dark  pupils;  too  plain  were  the 
roses  in  her  cheeks. 

"I  know  you  appear  very  distinguished  and  im- 
portant when  you  wear  that  expression,  but  I'd 
much  rather  see  you  smile,"  she  said,  gaily. 


i88  THE    SHERRODS 

"Smiles  are  too  expensive,  sometimes,"  he  said, 
without  knowing  what  he  uttered. 

"I'll  buy  them  at  your  own  price,"  she  laughed, 
but  a  shade  of  anxiety  crossed  her  face. 

"No;  I'll  trade  my  dull  smiles  for  your  bright 
ones.  It  will  be  enough  to  cheat,  without  robbing 
you,"  he  said,  pulling  himself  together  and  allow- 
ing a  dead  smile  to  come  to  life. 

Her  den  was  the  most  seductive  of  rooms.  It 
was  beautiful,  quaint,  indolent.  Before  he  dropped 
into  his  accustomed  chair  his  muscles  were  drawn, 
taut;  an  instant  later  he  was  aware  of  a  long  sigh 
and  conscious  of  relaxation.  His  brain  cleared,  his 
courage  revived,  and  he  was  framing  the  sentences 
which  were  to  lead  up  to  that  final  confession.  He 
had  an  eager  desire  to  have  it  over  with  and  to 
hurry  away  from  her  wrath. 

She,  on  the  other  hand,  was  all  excitement  over 
the  report  that  he  was  at  last  to  do  book-illustrat- 
ing. She  brought  a  tingling  to  his  heart  by  her 
undisguised  gladness.  Her  face  was  so  bright  with 
joy,  so  alive  with  interest,  that  he  could  but  defer 
striking  the  blow. 

"But  perhaps  you'd  rather  talk  about  some  other 
subject  than  yourself,"  she  said,  finally.  "I  want 
to  tell  you  about  my  brother.  He  is  in  Egypt  now 
and  he  is  wild  over  everything  there — perfectly 


THE   FALL    OF    THE    WEAK      189 

crazy.  A  letter  came  to-day  and  he  gives  a  wonder- 
ful account  of  a  trip  to  an  old  town  up  the  Nile. 
Those  boys  must  be  fairly  awakening  the  mummies 
if  we  are  to  judge  by  his  letters.  He  has  set  me 
wild  to  go  to  Egypt.  Shall  I  read  his  letter  to 
you?" 

Patiently  he  listened  to  an  entertaining  letter 
from  the  boy  who  was  seeing  the  world  with  a 
party  of  friends.  As  she  read,  he  watched  her 
face.  It  was  a  face  to  idolize,  a  face  to  covet,  a 
face  for  the  memory  to  subsist  upon  forever. 
Stealing  into  his  troubled  heart  came  the  realiza- 
tion that  this  girl  was  enthroned  there  beside  that 
other  loved  one,  both  for  him  to  worship  and  both 
to  worship  him.  There  grew  into  shape,  positive 
and  strong,  the  delightful  certainty  that  these  two 
women  could  love  each  other  and  that  in  so  loving 
could  share  his  honest  love,  for  now  he  believed 
that  his  love  was  big  enough  to  envelope  them 
both.  As  she  read  to  him  this  dream  mastered  and 
enslaved  him  and  his  heart  expanded,  letting  in  the 
love  of  this  second  petitioner,  dividing  the  kingdom 
fairly  that  she  might  reign  with  the  one  already 
there.  He  convinced  himself  that  he  loved  two 
women  honestly,  purely  and  with  his  whole  soul. 
He  loved  unreservedly  and  equally  Justine,  his 
wife,  and  Celeste,  his  friend. 


i9o  THE   SHERRODS 

"You're  not  listening  at  all,"  she  cried,  dropping 
the  letter  suddenly.  "What  are  you  thinking  of?" 

"Of — of  the  very  strangest  of  things,"  he  stam- 
mered. 

"But  not  of  the  letter?  I  am  so  sorry  I  bored 
you  with " 

"Stop!  Please,  stop!  Pardon  me,  I — I — for 
God's  sake,  let  me  think!"  he  burst  out,  starting 
to  his  feet.  He  strode  to  the  window  and,  with 
his  back  to  her,  looked  out  into  the  night.  The 
action,  sudden  and  inexplicable,  brought  flashes  of 
red  and  white  to  her  face,  and  then  a  steady  glow — 
the  flush  not  of  indignation,  but  of  joy.  A  heart 
throb  sent  the  blood  tingling  through  her  veins  and 
a  smile  flew  to  her  startled  face.  Her  eyes  melted 
with  a  sweet,  tender  joy  and  her  whole  being 
was  suffused  with  the  radiance  of  understanding. 
Woman's  intuition  told  her  all,  and,  with  clasped 
hands,  she  looked  upon  the  motionless  figure.  One 
hand  went  out  toward  him  as  if  to  lead  him  into 
the  light  of  her  love.  He  loved  her ! 

She  went  to  the  piano  and  gently,  with  a  soft 
smile  on  her  lips,  began  to  play  "La  Paloma,"  the 
daintiest  of  waltzes,  for  her  heart  was  dancing. 
At  last  he  turned  slowly  and  looked  upon  the 
player.  Her  back  was  toward  him.  His  eyes 
took  in  the  picture — the  white  shoulders  and  neck, 


"HIS    EYES    TOOK    IN    THE    PICTURE.' 


THE   FALL    OF    THE    WEAK    191 

the  pretty  head,  the  dark  hair  and  the  red  rose. 
All  his  good  resolutions,  all  his  remorse,  all  his 
honor  fled  with  the  first  glance.  The  dullness  left 
his  eyes  and  in  its  stead  came  the  flaring  spark  of 
passion.  He  strode  impulsively  to  her  side  and 
when  she  glanced  up  in  confusion,  her  eyes  found 
the  refuge  they  had  sought — the  awakened  love  in 
his. 

"O,  Jud!"  she  murmured,  faint  and  happy. 

"Celeste !"  he  whispered,  hoarsely,  his  face  al- 
most in  her  hair.  "I  worship  you !  I  adore  you !" 

He  crushed  her  in  his  arms  and  she  smiled 
through  her  tears. 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

AT    SEA. 

iVEN  at  that  moment  he  thought  of  the 
wrong  he  was  doing  Justine,  forgetting  that 
he  was  blasting  the  life  of  the  other  one. 
And  again,  when  he  asked  Celeste  to  be  his  wife, 
he  thought  of  the  cruel  deception  he  was  practicing 
upon  Justine.  Not  till  afterwards  did  he  fully 
realize  that  he  had  deceived  Celeste  a  thousand 
fold  more  grossly  than  Justine — for  Justine  was  his 
lawful  wife,  Celeste  his  victim. 

And  yet  that  night  he  gained  her  promise  to  be 
his  wife,  calmly,  remorselessly  leading  her  to  the 
sacrifice  of  love.  It  was  enough  for  the  moment 
that  he  loved  her  and  that  she  loved  him.  As  he 
hurried  homeward  with  her  kisses  tingling  on  his 
lips,  he  whispered  joyously  to  himself  that  he  loved 
them  both  and  that  he  could  live  for  them  both — 
worshiping  one  no  more  than  the  other.  And  he 
slept  that  night  with  a  smile  of  happiness  on  his 
lips. 

The  day  for  the  wedding  was  set,  and  it  was  not 
until  then  that  his  eyes  were  opened  to  the  wrong 
he  was  doing  Celeste.  She  could  not  be  his  wife. 


AT   SEA  193 

All  the  marriage  vows  in  the  land  could  not  bind 
her  to  him  in  law.  For  the  first  time  he  realized 
that  reality.  But  to  his  rescue  came  the  assurance 
that  he  loved  her  and  that  she  was  his  in  the  holy 
sight  of  God,  if  not  in  the  wretched  laws  of  man. 
He  saw  the  wrong  of  it  all,  but  he  made  his  own 
law  and  he  made  his  wrong  a  right.  As  he  made 
his  arrangements  for  the  marriage  he  was  afraid 
that  something  like  conscience  might  overthrow 
him  before  his  desires  could  be  realized. 

Blissfully  ignorant  and  deeply  in  love,  she  filled 
him  with  joy  by  naming  a  day  just  one  month  from 
that  on  which  he  told  her  that  he  loved  her.  Ac- 
ceding again  to  his  wishes,  for  his  eager  will,  urged 
on  by  fear,  carried  her  with  it,  she  agreed  to  a  very 
quiet  wedding. 

The  power  of  his  love — the  love  which  shrank 
and  trembled  with  the  fear  that  it  might  be 
thwarted — carried  everything  before  it,  sweeping 
honor  and  dishonor  into  a  heap  which  he  called 
the  mountain  of  happiness,  and  he  resolved  that  it 
should  be  strong  and  enduring. 

A  week  before  the  wedding  day  he  went  to 
Justine,  utterly  conscienceless,  glorying  in  his  love 
for  her,  rejoicing  in  his  capacity  to  share  it  with 
another.  Happy  were  the  day  and  night  he  spent 
with  her.  She  gave  him  the  fullness  of  a  love  long 


i94  THE    SHERRODS 

restrained,  long  pent-up.  She  had  not  seen  him  in 
more  than  three  months.  All  the  unhappiness,  all 
the  joylessness,  all  the  lonesomeness  were  swept 
away  by  the  return  of  this  handsome  boy,  her  hus- 
band, her  Jud. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  she  felt  some  uneasi- 
ness lest  he  meet  'Gene  Crawley  on  the  place  and 
lest  the  long  averted  catastrophe  might  occur.  She 
felt  guilty  in  that  she  was  deceiving  Jud  in  regard 
to  'Gene.  That  was  her  greatest  sin !  But  Craw- 
ley  went  to  the  village  on  that  day.  He  had  seen 
Jud  enter  the  gate  the  evening  before  while  he  was 
doing  the  work  about  the  barn,  and  had  slunk  back 
to  his  lodging  place  in  Martin  Grimes'  barn.  An 
ugly  hatred  came  into  the  soul  Justine  had  tempered 
until  it  was  gentler  than  one  could  have  supposed 
'Gene  Crawley's  soul  could  be.  The  little  farm 
looked  fairly  prosperous.  Jud  did  not  know  that 
the  season  had  turned  unproductive  and  that  Jus- 
tine had  been  forced  to  observe  the  utmost  frugality 
in  order  to  make  both  ends  meet. 

And  so  he  basked  in  her  love  and  then  went 
away,  loving  her  more  deeply  than  ever.  He  told 
her  of  his  hopes  and  his  desires  and  of  his  struggles 
to  go  ahead.  Some  time,  he  was  sure,  he  could 
take  her  to  the  city  and  they  could  be  happy  for- 
ever. 

"Poor  Jud,"  she  said,  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 


AT   SEA  T95 

"You  are  so  lonesome,  so  unhappy!  I  wish  I 
could  be  with  you.  But  we  are  so  awfully,  awfully 
poor,  aren't  we  ?" 

"Cruelly  poor,  dear,  is  better.    You  haven't  had 
a  new  dress  in  a  year,  and  look  at  these  clothes  of 


mine." 


He  was  wearing  once  more  the  wretched  gar- 
ments in  which  he  was  married !  Down  at  the  toll- 
gate  Jim  Hardesty  said  to  the  crowd  the  day  after 
his  departure  for  Chicago : 

"He's  made  a  fizzle  uv  it,  boys.  Gol-dinged,  ef 
I  c'n  make  it  out.  'Feared  as  though  he  wuz  bound 
to  make  it  go  up  yander  an'  I'd  'a'  bet  my  last  chaw 
tebaccer  'at  he'd  'a'  got  to  be  president  er  some- 
thin'  two  year'  ago.  But  he's  fell  down  somehow. 
I  never  did  see  sitch  a  wreck  as  him.  He  don't 
look  's  if  he  had  money  'nough  to  git  a  good  squarr 
meal.  No  wonder  he  ain't  been  to  see  her.  It's  too 
dern'  fer  to  walk." 

A  week  afterwards  Justine  received  a  letter  from 
Jud.  With  pale  face  and  crushed  heart  she  read 
and  re-read  it.  It  brought  grief  and  joy,  terror  and 
gladness,  distress  and  pride.  In  her  solitude  she 
wept  piteously,  but  whether  with  joy  or  sadness  she 
could  not  have  told. 

"And  now  I  must  tell  you  of  the  great  good  luck 
that  has  befallen  me.  It  means  that  poor  Jud 


196  THE   SHERRODS 

Sherrod  is  to  have  the  greatest  opportunity  that 
ever  came  to  a  man.  I  am  going  to  Europe,  across 
the  ocean,  dearest.  Can  you  imagine  such  a  thing  ? 
Think  of  me  going  to  Europe,  think  of  me  sailing 
across  the  sea.  I'll  believe  it  when  I  find  that  I 
am  not  really  dreaming.  Truly,  it  is  too  wonderful 
to  be  true.  How  I  wish  I  could  take  you  with  me. 
But  think  of  the  wonderful  things  I'll  have  to  tell 
you  when  I  come  back.  I  can  tell  you  of  Paris, 
London,  Rome  and  all  the  places  we  have  talked 
and  read  about  so  often  together.  Am  I  not  for- 
tunate to  have  such  a  friend  as  the  one  who  is  to 
give  me  this  unheard  of  chance?  I  must  tell  you 
that  I  don't  think  I  deserve  it  at  all.  Some  day 
my  benefactor  will  learn  that  kindness  can  be 
wasted  and  that  barrenness  sometimes  follows  the 
best  of  sowing.  This  friend,  of  whom  I  shall  write 
you  more  fully  when  I  have  obtained  consent,  is  so 
deeply  interested  in  me  and  my  future  that  the  art 
schools  in  Europe  are  to  be  made  accessible  to  me 
— poverty-stricken  me — because  of  that  interest. 
There  is  so  much  to  be  gained  by  a  brief  tour  of 
Europe  and  by  a  short  stay  in  the  big  art  schools 
that  my  benefactor  says  it  would  be  criminal  for  me 
to  be  deprived  of  the  chance  because  I  have  no 
money.  We  are  to  go  together  and  we  are  to  stay 
several  months,  possibly  six.  I  am  to  have  the  best 


AT   SEA  197 

of  instruction  and  am  to  have  the  additional  lessons 
acquired  only  by  travel.  When  I  come  back  to  this 
country  I  shall  be  ready  to  startle  the  world.  We 
sail  next  week  and  I  don't  know  just  where  we  are 
to  go  after  first  reaching  England.  Of  course,  I 
shall  write  to  you  every  day,  dearest,  and  I  shall 
think  of  you  every  moment.  It  is  for  you  that  I  am 
building  all  my  future.  When  I  am  rich  and 
famous,  we  will  go  to  Europe  together,  you  and  I. 
I  am  so  rushed  now  for  time,  getting  ready  and 
everything,  that  I  cannot  come  to  see  you  before  I 
go,  but  you  must  pray  for  me  and  you  must  love 
me  more  than  ever.  At  the  end  of  this  week  I  give 
up  my  place  on  the  paper,  and  when  I  come  back  I 
expect  to  open  a  studio  of  my  own.  The  only  thing 
I  hate  about  the  affair  is  that  I  must  leave  you,  but 
it  won't  be  so  hard  for  you  to  bear,  will  it,  dear? 
You  know  it  is  for  my  own  and  your  good." 

When  all  the  misery  of  losing  him  for  months, 
when  all  the  dread  of  losing  him  forever,  perhaps, 
in  that  voyage  across  the  awful  sea,  had  been  lost 
in  the  joy  over  his  good  fortune,  Justine  gloried. 
Though  her  voice  trembled  and  grew  faint  and  her 
eyes  glistened  as  she  read  the  news  to  Mrs.  Craae 
and  'Gene,  it  was  from  pride  and  joy.  How  proud 
she  was  of  him ! 


198  THE   SHERRODS 

A  week  later  Dudley  Sherrod  and  wife  sailed 
from  New  York.  As  the  huge  ship  left  the  dock, 
Celeste,  clasping  his  arm  and  looking  up  into  his 
face,  somber  with  thoughts  of  the  future,  ex- 
claimed : 

"We  are  at  sea !    We  are  at  sea !" 
"Yes,;'  he  said,  slowly.     "We  are  at  sea." 


"I  see  in  a  Chicago  paper  that  a  feller  named 
Dudley  Sherrod  wuz  married  t'other  day,"  re- 
marked Postmaster  Hardesty  to  Parson  Marks 
while  the  latter  was  waiting  for  his  mail  at  the 
tollgate  a  few  days  later.  "Cur'os,  how  derned  big 
this  world  is,  ain't  it,  parson?" 

"Oh,  Chicago  is  a  world  in  itself,"  said  the  par- 
son. 

"Kinder  startled  me  when  I  seen  that  name," 
Jim  went  on,  pausing  in  his  perusal  of  a  postal  card 
directed  to  Martin  Grimes.  "By  ginger,  Martin's 
been  buyin'  hogs  up  in  Grant  township — I  mean — 
«r — I  sh'd  say  that  this  is  a  derned  big  world,"  he 
stammered,  guiltily  dropping  the  card  behind  the 
counter.  "I  reckon  there's  a  hunderd  Sherrods  in 
Chicago,  though." 

"Oh,  I  daresay  you'd  find  three  or  four  Dudley 
Sherrods  there  if  you  looked  through  the  direc- 
tory." 


AT   SEA  199 

"Our  Jud  has  jist  gone  to  the  old  country,  Harve 
Crose  tells  me." 

"Is  it  possible  ?" 

"Coin'  to  take  some  drawin'  lessons,  I  believe." 

"I  am  very  glad  to  hear  that  he  has  such  a 
remarkable  opportunity.  But  I  was  under  the  im- 
pression that  he  had  little  or  no  money."  Mr. 
Marks  was  now  deeply  interested. 

"Harve  said  somethin'  about  a  friend  payin'  all 
the  expenses  because  he  took  a  likin'  to  Jud." 

"And  what  provision  has  he  made  for  Justine?" 

"Well,  now  you're  askin'  somethin'  I  cain't  an- 
swer. Harve's  such  a  derned  careless  fool  he  didn't 
ast  anythin'  about  that  part  of  it." 

Later  in  the  afternoon  Mr.  Marks  drove  back 
to  the  tollgate  and  asked  Hardesty  if  he  had  kept 
the  paper  containing  the  notice  of  the  wedding  in. 
Chicago.  He  could  not  account  for  the  feeling 
that  inspired  this  act  on  his  part.  Something  in- 
definable had  formed  itself  in  his  brain  and  he 
could  not  rest  until  he  had  settled  it  within  him- 
self. 

Few  Chicago  papers  found  their  way  into  this 
section  of  Indiana.  Clay  township  was  peculiarly 
isolated.  Its  people  were  lowly,  and  comfortable 
in  the  indifference  of  the  lowly  to  the  progress  of 
the  world  aside  from  its  politics,  its  wars  and  its 


200  THE   SHERRODS 

markets.  Farm  papers,  family  story  papers  and 
the  GJenville  Weekly  Tomahawk  provided  the 
reading  for  these  busy,  homely  people.  Jim  Har- 
desty  "took"  a  Chicago  paper,  but  he  was  usually 
too  busy  whittling  and  telling  stories  to  read  much 
more  than  the  headlines. 

"Dinged  if  I  know  what  I  done  with  it,  parson," 
said  Jim,  scratching  his  head  thoughtfully.  u  'Pears 
to  me  I  wrapped  some  bacon  up  in  it  fer  Mis' 
Trimmer  yesterday.  Anythin'  pertickler  you 
wanted  to  see  about  the  weddin'  ?" 

"Do  you  remember  what  it  said  about  the  wed- 
ding?" 

"Lemme  see,  what  did  it  say?  Said  the  groom 
wuz  from  northern  Indiana — up  about  Fort 
Wayne,  I  think.  The  girl's  name  wuz — hold  on  a 
minute — what  wuz  her  name?  Wood — that's  it. 
Swell  people,  I  guess.  This  feller  wuz  an  artist, 
too.  Say,  that's  kinder  queer,  ain't  it?" 

"A  coincidence — a  rare  coincidence,  I  must  say." 

"Course,  it  couldn't  'a'  been  our  Jud,"  said  Jim, 
conclusively.  "He's  already  married." 

"Oh,  no,  no !  Of  course  not,  Mr.  Hardesty. 
He  is  devoted  to  Justine  and — and " 

"An'  a  man  'at's  got  any  sense  ain't  goin'  to  load 
hisself  down  with  two  when  it's  so  derned  hard  to 


AT   SEA  201 

git  rid  of  one,"  grinned  Jim,  referring  to  his  own 
connubial  condition. 

"And  bigamy  is  a  very  serious  crime.  I  wonder 
if  any  one  else  in  the  neighborhood  has  noticed  the 
similarity  of  names?" 

"I  ain't  heerd  no  one  mention  it,  Mr.  Marks. 
By  ginger,  you  ain't  got  no — er — suspicions,  have 
ye?"  asked  Jim,  suddenly  acute.  Mr.  Marks  stam- 
mered confusedly  and  assured  him  that  no  such 
thought  had  entered  his  head. 

"Would  you  mind  giving  me  Dudley's  Chicago 
address?"  he  asked,  at  last,  that  same  indefinable 
something  struggling  for  recognition. 

"He's  half  way  to  Europe  by  this  time,"  ex- 
plained Jim. 

"I  feel  that  it  would  be  wise  to  secure  a  letter 
from  Jud  himself  in  case  rumor  confuses  him  with 
this  other  man.  It  would  be  just  to  him  and  to 
Justine,  Mr.  Hardesty.  If  you'll  give  me  his  ad- 
dress I'll  write  to  him  and  we  can  have  his  own 
word  for  it  in  case  people  get  to  talking." 

"Then  you  are  afraid  people  will  think  it's  Jud  ?" 
demanded  Jim. 

"You  cannot  tell  what  people  might  think  and 
say,"  said  the  parson,  sagely.  "And,  by  the  way, 
did  Mrs.  Hardesty  see  that  notice  in  the  paper?" 

"Naw!     She's  too  busy  readin'  that  continued 


202  THE   SHERRODS 

story  in  the  Wife's  Own  Magazine.  Thunder !  I 
wouldn't  even  hint  to  her  that  it  might  be  Jud! 
She's  jest  the  woman  to  swear  it  wuz  him  anyhow, 
an'  she'd  peddle  it  over  the  country  quicker'n  scat. 
But,  course,  it  cain't  be  Jud,  so  what's  the  use  wor- 
ryin'  about  it?  This  is  a  thunderin'  big  world,  as 
I  said  before,  Mr.  Marks,  an'  they  do  say  that  up 
in  Indianapolis  there  is  sixty-four  fellers  named 
James  Hardesty.  Gosh,  I  hope  my  wife  never  gits 
it  into  her  head  that  I've  got  sixty- four  other  wives, 
jist  because  the  name's  the  same.  She'd  never  git 
tired  askin'  me  about  that  trip  I  took  to  Indian- 
apolis six  year'  ago  with  the  rest  o'  the  G.  A.  R. 
boys  from  Glenville." 

Nevertheless,  Mr.  Marks  wrote  to  Jud  Sherrod, 
delicately  referring  to  the  strange  similarity  in 
names  and  to  the  embarrassment  he  might  suffer  if 
the  community  came  to  regard  him  as  identical 
with  the  Chicago  bridegroom.  The  letter  was 
nothing  less  than  a  deliberate  command  for  Dudley 
Sherrod  to  say  "guilty"  or  "not  guilty." 

Weeks  afterwards,  from  across  the  sea,  came 
a  reply  from  Jud  in  all  the  cold  dignity  of  a  con- 
science in  defense.  He  closed  with  these  words : 

"/  have  but  one  wife — the  one  whom  God  and 
the  law  has  given  me.  You  will  greatly  oblige  me, 
Mr.  Marks,  by  informing  any  inquiring  person  in 


AT   SEA  203 

your  community  that  Justine  is  my  wife  and  that  I 
am  not  the  Sherrod  who  was  married  in  Chicago. 
Thank  you  for  your  interest  in  Justine  and  me." 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

'GENE  CRAWLEY'S  SERMON. 


s  s   5  ^^\  ENE,    'tain't    none  o'  my  business, 

I     "W"  understan',    but   'pears   to   me   you 

ain't  doin'  a  very  sensible  thing  in 

hirin'  out  to  Jestine  Sherrod  like  this.  She'd  oughter 

have  some  one  else  down  there  'tendin'  to  the  place. 

You  ain't  the  feller,  take  it  jest  how  you  please. 

She's  all  alone,  'cept  ole  Mis'  Crane,  an'  folks  is 

boun'  to  talk,  dang  'em.     I  don't  think  it's  jest 

right  fer  you  to  be  there." 

"There  ain't  nothin'  wrong  in  it,  Martin.  There 
ain't  a  thing.  Do  you  think  there  is?" 

"W — e — 11,  no,  not  that,  'zackly,  but  it  gives 
people  a  chanst  to  say  there's  somethin'  wrong," 
said  Mr.  Grimes,  shifting  his  feet  uncomfortably. 
The  two  men  were  standing  in  the  farmer's  barn- 
yard about  a  fortnight  after  it  became  generally 
known  in  the  community  that  Jud  had  gone  to  Eu- 
rope. "Y'see,  ever'body  reecollects  that  nasty 
thing  you  said  down  to  the  tollgate  the  night  o'  the 
weddin'.  'Tain't  human  natur'  to  fergit  sich  a 
brag  as  that  wuz.  What  a  goshamighty  fool  you 
wuz  to  talk  like " 


'GENE    CRAWLEY'S    SERMON     205 

"Oh,  I  know  I  wuz,  I  know  it.  Don't  be  a 
throwin'  it  up  to  me,  Martin.  I  wish  I'd 
never  said  it.  I  wish  I'd  died  while  I  wuz  sayin'  it 
so's  I  could  'a'  gone  right  straight  to  hell  to  pay  fer 
it.  I  wuz  a  crazy  man,  Martin,  that's  what  I  wuz. 
Ever'body  knows  I  didn't  mean  it,  don't  they?" 

"W— e — 11,  mos'  ever'body  knows  you  couldn't 
kerry  out  yer  boast,  no  matter  ef  you  meant  it  er 
not.  But,  you  c'n  see  fer  yerself  'at  your  workin' 
over  on  her  place  ain't  jest  the  thing,  with  all  the 
talk  'at  went  on  a  couple  year  ago.  Like's  not 
ever'thing's  all  proper  an'  they  ain't  no  real  harm 
in  it,  but " 

"Look  here,  Martin  Grimes,  do  you  mean  to  in- 
sinyate  that  it  ain't  proper?  'Cause  ef  you  do, 
somethin's  goin'  to  drap  an'  drap  all-fired  hard," 
exclaimed  'Gene,  his  brow  darkening. 

"Don't  be  so  techy,  'Gene.  I  ain't  insinyated  a 
blame  thing ;  cain't  you  see  I'm  tryin'  to  lay  the  hull 
case  afore  you  clearly?  'Tain't  no  use  beatin' 
roun'  the  bush,  nuther.  She's  boun'  to  be  comper- 
mised." 

Crawley  stared  long  and  silently  at  a  herd  of 
cattle  on  the  distant  hillside. 

"Martin,"  he  said,  at  last,  "that  girl's  made  a 
different  man  of  me.  I  ain't  the  same  ornery  cuss  I 
wuz  a  couple  of  year  ago.  Anybody  c'n  see  that. 


206  THE   SHERRODS 

I  ain't  teched  a  mouthful  of  whisky  fer  purty  nigh 
a  year.  Seems  to  me  I  don't  keer  a  damn  to  swear 
— I  mean  I  don't  keer  to  swear  any  more.  That 
one  slipped  out  jest  because  talkin'  to  you  like  this 
kind  o'  takes  me  back  to  where  I  used  to  be.  I  go 
to  church  purty  reg'lar,  don't  I  ?  Well,  it's  all  her. 
She's  made  a  different  man  of  me,  I  tell  you,  an'  I 
wouldn't  do  her  no  wrong  if  the  hull  world  de- 
pended on  it.  She's  the  best  woman  that  ever  lived, 
that's  what  she  is.  An'  she  keers  more  fer  Jud 
Sherrod's  little  finger  than  fer  all  the  balance  of 
the  world  put  together.  There  ain't  no  honester 
girl  in  Clay  township,  an'  darn  me,  if  ever  I  hear 
anybody  say  anything  mean  ag'in  her,  I'll  break  his 
neck.  I'm  helpin'  her  over  on  the  place,  an'  she's 
payin'  me  wages,  jest  like  she'd  pay  any  hand,  an'  I 
don't  know  whose  business  it  is  but  her'n  an'  mine." 

"I  know  all  that,  'Gene,  but  people  don't " 

"Who  in  thunder  is  the  people?  A  lot  of  old 
women  who  belong  to  church,  an'  go  to  sociables 
jest  to  run  one  'nother  down,  an'  all  the  time  there 
ain't  one-tenth  of  'em  that  ain't  jealous  of  the  wom- 
en they  think's  goin'  wrong.  They're  so  derned  sel- 
fish an'  evil-minded  that  they  cain't  even  imagine 
another  woman  doin'  somethln'  that  ain't  right 
without  feelin'  jealous  as  blazes  an'  gittin'  dissatis- 
fied with  ever' thing  around  'em.  You  cain't  tell  me 


'GENE    CRAWLEY'S    SERMON     207 

nothin'  about  these  old  scarecrows  that  keep  a  sign 
hangin'  out  all  the  time — Virtue  is  its  own  re- 
ward.' Say,  Martin,  you  don't  suppose  that  I'm 
the  only  hired  hand  workin'  around  these  parts,  do 
you?"  snarled  'Gene,  malevolently. 

"No,  course  not,  but — what  you  mean,  'Gene  ?" 

"I'm  not  the  only  man  that's  workin'  on  a  farm 
where  there's  a  woman,  am  I?"  grated  'Gene. 

"Lookee  here,  'Gene,  'splain  yerself.  That 
don't  sound  very  well,"  exclaimed  Martin,  turning 
a  shade  paler  and  glancing  uneasily  toward  his  own 
house. 

"There  ain't  nothin'  to  explain,  but  it's  some- 
thin'  to  think  about,  Martin.  You  c'n  tell  that  to 
all  the  old  women  you  see,  too,  an'  mebby  they 
won't  do  so  much  thinkin'  about  Justine  Van. 
That's  all.  If  I'd  waited  fer  any  of  these  other 
women  'round  here  to  do  me  a  good  turn,  I'd  be 
worse  than  I  ever  wuz.  'Tain't  in  'em,  Martin ;  all 
they  c'n  do  is  to  cackle  an'  look  around  to  see  if 
they  got  wings  sproutin'  on  theirselves.  They  don't 
think  of  nobody  else,  unless  they  think  bad.  Jus- 
tine ain't  that  sort,  I  want  to  tell  you.  Here  I  wuz, 
her  enemy,  an'  no  friend  of  her  husband's.  I'd 
done  a  hull  lot  o'  mean  things  to  her  an'  him.  But 
did  she  hold  it  up  ag'in  me  when  the  chanst  come 
fer  her  to  do  some  good  fer  me?  No,  sir,  she 


208  THE    SHERRODS 

didn't.  She  tole  me  that  I  had  the  makin'  of  a  man 
in  me,  an'  then  she  tuck  holt  of  me  an'  give  me  a 
new  start.  She  said  I  wuz  a  beast  an'  a  drunkard 
an'  a  coward,  an'  a  hull  lot  o'  things,  but  she  said 
I  could  be  a  good  man  if  I'd  try.  So  I  tried,  an'  I 
hadn't  no  idee  it  wuz  so  easy.  She  done  it  an'  she 
don't  keer  no  more  fer  me  than  she  does  fer  that 
spotted  calf  of  your'n  over  yander.  Now,  I  want 
to  tell  you  somethin',  Martin.  She  needs  me  down 
there  on  the  place  an'  I'm  goin'  to  stay  there  till 
she  tells  me  to  quit.  Then  I'm  goin'  to  quit  like  a 
man.  It  don't  make  no  difference  what  I  said  two 
er  three  year  ago,  either,  'cause  I'm  not  the  same 
man  I  wuz  then.  If  Clay  township  don't  like  the 
way  I'm  doin',  let  'em  say  so  an'  be  done  with  it. 
Then  we'll  settle  some  scores." 

Grimes  shuffled  his  feet  frequently  and  expecto- 
rated nervously  without  regard  to  direction  or  con- 
sequences during  this  unusually  long  speech.  Mrs. 
Grimes  was  recognized  as  one  of  the  most  ravenous 
gossips  in  the  neighborhood,  and  her  husband  knew 
it.  Yet  he  was  too  much  in  dread  of  Crawley's 
prowess  to  take  up  the  cudgels  in  her  defense.  He 
had  also  suspected,  years  before,  that  she  was  in 
love  with  one  of  his  "hired  men";  hence  his  uneasi- 
ness under  'Gene's  implications. 

"You  better  not  talk  too  much,  'Gene,"  he  said 


'GENE    CRAJVLEY'S    SERMON     209 

at  last.  "I'm  yer  friend,  but  I  cain't  stave  off  the 
hull  township  fer  you.  Ef  it  gits  out  that  you're 
making  sich  bold  talk  an'  braggin' " 

"Braggin' !  Who's  braggin'  ?  I  mean  ever'  word 
I  said,  an'  a  heap  sight  more,  too.  You  jest  tell 
'em  what  I  said  an'  let  'em  come  to  me.  But  if  any 
of  'em  goes  to  Justine  with  their  sneakin'  tales  an' 
their  cussed  lies,  I'll  not  stop  to  see  whether  it's  a 
man  er  a  woman.  I'll  wrap  'em  up  in  a  knot  an' 
chuck  'em  out  into  the  middle  of  the  lane." 

"Now,  that  wouldn't  be  a  wise  thing  to  do,  don't 
you  sec  ?"  said  Grimes,  growing  more  and  more  un- 
comfortable. At  this  point  it  may  be  announced 
that  Mr.  Grimes  had  been  deputized  by  his  wife  to 
convince  'Gene  of  the  error  of  his  way  and  of  the 
wrong  he  was  doing  Justine.  "You'd  have  the  con- 
stables down  here  in  two  shakes  of  a  dead  lamb's 
tail." 

"Old  Bill  Higgins  an'  Randy  Dixon?  They 
wouldn't  try  to  arrest  me  if  I  wuz  tied  hand  an' 
foot  an'  chloroformed  into  the  bargain.  But,  say, 
there  ain't  no  use  talkin'  about  this  thing.  I  want 
the  folks  to  know  that  I'm  goin'  to  stick  to  Justine 
an'  help  her  out  as  long  as  I  can.  I'm  doin'  it 
honest  an'  I'm  gittin'  paid  fer  it  like  anybody  else. 
Martin,  I  don't  want  to  have  'em  say  anything 
ag'in  her.  She's  as  good  as  gold  an'  we  all  oughter 


210  THE    SHERRODS 

be  proud  of  her.  Jud's  in  hard  luck,  I  reckon. 
Leastwise  he  looked  it  last  time  he  wuz  here. 
Mebby  he'll  git  on  his  feet  over  there  in  Europe, 
an'  then  he  c'n  do  the  right  thing  by  her.  But  I'll 
tell  you,  Martin,  we  all  want  to  stick  to  her  now. 
She's  all  broke  up  an'  I  c'n  see  she's  discouraged. 
She  wouldn't  let  on  fer  the  world,  allus  bright  an' 
happy,  but  old  Mrs.  Crane  told  me  t'other  day  that 
she'd  ketched  her  cryin'  more'n  onct.  That  gosh- 
darned  little  farm  of  her'n  ain't  payin'  a  thing,  an' 
I  want  to  tell  you  she  needs  sympathy  'nstead  of 
hard  words." 

"They  ain't  a  soul  ever  said  anything  ag'in  her, 
'Gene,"  broke  in  the  other.  "But  they're  apt  to  ef 
it  goes  on.  But  go  ahead;  you  know  best,  'Gene, 
you  know  best." 

"I  don't  know  best,  either.  That's  the  trouble. 
I  c'n  talk  to  you  an'  sweat  about  it,  but  I  don't 
know  what  to  do.  I'm  awful  worried  about  it.  Of 
course,  if  any  responsible  person  ever  said  anything 
wrong  she  could  sue  him  in  the  courts,  somehow  er 
other,  but  she'd  hate  to  do  that,"  said  'Gene,  reflect- 
ively. Plainly,  he  saw  the  girl's  position  better 
than  his  loyalty  would  allow  him  to  admit.  Mar- 
tin started  violently  at  the  word  "sue"  and  was 
from  that  moment  silenced.  He  lived  in  terror  of 
a  lawsuit  and  its  dangers. 


'GENE    CRAWLEY'S   SERMON     211 

"D'you  suppose  she'd  go  to  court?" 

"She  wouldn't  want  to,  but  me — me  an' — me  an* 
Jud  could  coax  her  to  do  it,"  said  'Gene,  shrewd  in 
an  instant.  "I  don't  reckon  folks  remember  about 
the  courts,  do  they?" 

Martin  pulled  his  nerves  together  sufficiently  to 
send  a  stream  of  tobacco  juice  into  a  knot-hole  in 
the  fence  fifteen  feet  away,  and  said: 

"Well,  they'd  oughter  remember,  by  ginger  I" 

After  a  few  minutes  of  rather  energetic  chewing 
for  him  (Martin  rarely  chewed  tobacco  vigor- 
ously because  of  the  extravagance),  he  calmly  re- 
opened the  conversation. 

"When  are  you  liable  to  git  through  planting 
over  there?" 

"In  a  couple  of  days,  if  it  keeps  dry." 

"I'll  let  Bud  Jones  go  over  an'  help  you  ef  you 
need  him." 

"Oh,  I  c'n  git  along,  I  guess." 

"I  wuz  thinkin'  a  little  of  sendin'  Bud  over  this 
week  with  a  couple  bushels  of  potaters  fer  Jestine. 
Never  seed  sich  potaters  in  my  born  days." 

"I  think  she's  got  a  plenty,  Martin." 

"You  don't  say  so.  Well,  how's  she  off  fer  tur- 
nips?" 

"She  could  use  a  few  bushels  of  turnips  an'  some 
oats  an'  little  corn,  I  reckon.  Dern  it,  I  believe 


212  THE   SHERRODS 

she's  purty  nigh  out  of  hay,  too,"  said  'Gene,  so- 
berly. 

"Tell  her  I'll  drive  over  this  week  with  some," 
said  Martin,  wiping  his  brow. 

"She'll  pay  you  fer  the  stuff  when  you  take  it 
over." 

"I  didn't  'low  to  ask  fer  pay." 

"Well,  she  ain't  askin'  fer  favors,  either." 

Martin  stared  down  the  road  for  some  minutes. 

"But  I  got  more'n  I  c'n  use,"  he  said. 

"If  that's  the  case  you  c'n  send  it  over  an'  she'll 
be  mighty  thankful.  An'  say,  I  guess  I  c'n  use  Bud 
to-morrow  an'  next  day." 

"We're  purty  busy  an'  I  don't  see  how " 

"Don't  send  him,  then.  You  said  you'd  thought 
of  it,  you  know." 

"I'll  send  him,  though,  come  to  think  of  it.  You 
say  pore  little  Jestine  'pears  to  be  discouraged?" 

"Kinder  so,  I  should  say.  Poor  little  girl, 

she's "  Here  he  leaned  over  and  uttered  an 

almost  inaudible  bit  of  information.  Martin's 
eyes  bulged  and  he  gasped. 

"The  devil  you  say !    Well,  I'll  be  danged !" 

'Gene  started  down  the  lane,  his  jaws  set  and 
hard  for  the  moment.  Suddenly  he  turned,  and, 
with  the  first  chuckle  of  mirth  Grimes  had  heard 
from  him  that  day,  said : 


'GENE    CRAWLER'S   SERMON 

"Don't  fergit  to  send  over  them  potaters,  too, 
Martin." 

Then  he  trudged  rapidly  away,  leaving  Mr. 
Grimes  in  a  state  bordering  on  collapse.  Between 
the  startling  bit  of  information  'Gene  had  given 
him,  the  hint  at  lawsuits,  the  insinuation  against 
other  women  in  the  locality  and  his  own  astounding 
liberality,  he  was  the  most  thoroughly  confused 
farmer  in  Clay  township.  He  went  to  the  house 
and  talked  it  all  over  with  his  wife,  and  the  words 
of  advice  that  he  gave  to  her  savored  very  much  of 
the  mandatory.  He  dreamed  that  night  that  some 
one  sued  him  for  damages  and  got  judgment  for 
$96,000.  The  next  day  he  sent  a  wagonload  of 
supplies  to  Justine,  after  which  he  told  his  wife  she 
could  not  have  the  new  "calico"  he  had  been  prom- 
ising for  three  months. 

Eugene  Crawley's  position  on  the  old  Van  farm 
was  queer.  He  was  a  self-appointed  slave,  as  it 
were.  True,  he  was  paid  wages  and  he  was  given 
his  meals  in  the  little  kitchen  where  Justine  and 
Mrs.  Crane  ate.  That  privilege  was  the  one  rec- 
ompense that  made  slavery  a  charm.  In  his  undis- 
ciplined heart  there  had  grown  a  feeling  of  rever- 
ence for  the  wife  of  Jud  Sherrod  that  displaced  the 
evil  love  of  the  long  ago.  His  love,  in  these  days, 
was  pure  and  hopeless.  He  thought  only  of  lifting 


2i4  THE   SHERRODS 

the  burden  that  another's  love  had  left  upon  her 
shoulders.  The  'Gene  Crawley  of  old  was  no  more. 
In  his  place  was  a  simple,  devoted  toiler,  a  lowly 
worshiper. 

Against  her  will  he  had  attached  himself  to  the 
farm,  and  at  last  he  had  become  indispensable.  The 
fear  with  which  she  had  once  regarded  him  was 
gone  with  the  wonderful  alteration  in  his  nature. 
Innocent,  unsuspecting  child  that  she  was,  she 
thought  that  his  love  had  died  and  that  it  could 
never  be  awakened.  She  did  not  know  the  depths 
of  his  silent  adoration. 

At  nightfall  each  day  he  trudged  back  to  Martin 
Grimes's  barn  to  sleep,  and  in  the  morning,  before 
sunrise,  he  was  at  his  post  of  duty  again.  So 
thoughtful  was  he  of  her  welfare  that  he  never  lin- 
gered after  the  night's  chores  were  done,  realizing 
that  the  least  indiscretion  would  give  rise  to  neigh- 
borhood gossip.  Their  conversations  were  short, 
but  always  free  and  friendly.  They  met  only  as 
necessity  obliged  and  nothing  could  have  been  more 
decorous  than  their  conduct.  Yet  'Gene  went  to  his 
little  room  in  the  barn  that  night  with  a  troubled 
heart. 

"Sure  they  cain't  talk  about  her,"  he  thought. 
"She's  an  angel,  if  there  ever  wuz  one." 

Months  before  he  had  said  aloud  to  himself,  off 


'GENE    CRAW  LETS   SERMON      215 

in  the  field,  as  he  looked  toward  the  house  in  which 
his  fair  employer  lived: 

"I  wouldn't  harm  her  by  word  er  thought  fer  all 
heaven.  She's  honest  an'  I'm  goin'  to  be.  She's 
Jud's  wife  an'  she  loves  him,  an'  I  ain't  got  no  right 
to  even  think  of  lovin'  her.  'Gene  Crawley,  you 
gotter  give  up.  You  gotter  be  honest." 

And  he  was  honest. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE    PURE    AND   THE    POOR. 

four  months  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dudley  Sher- 
rod  wandered  over  Europe.  They  saw  Paris, 
Venice,  Rome,  Amsterdam,  Brussels,  Vienna 
and  quaint  German  towns,  unknown  to  most  Ameri- 
can tourists.  Celeste  had  visited  the  Old  World 
many  times  before,  but  it  was  all  new  to  her  now; 
she  was  traveling  with  the  man  she  loved.  To 
Sherrod,  the  wonders  of  the  land  he  had  never 
hoped  to  see  were  a  source  of  the  most  intense  de- 
light. His  artistic,  romantic  nature  leaped  under 
the  spur  of  awakening  forces;  his  love  for  the  beau- 
tiful, the  glorious,  the  quaint  and  the  curious  was 
satiated  daily.  He  lived  in  the  perfect  glory  of 
the  present,  doggedly  disregarding  the  past  and 
braving  everything  that  the  future  might  bring 
forth,  good  or  evil. 

Basking  in  the  love  of  this  fair  girl,  adoring  her 
and  being  adored,  he  lost  all  vestige  of  conscience. 
The  shadow  that  hung  over  him  on  the  wedding 
day  drifted  away  into  forgetfulness,  and  he  saw 
nothing  but  the  pleasures  of  life.  A  dread  that  the 
law  would  surely  find  him  out  and  snatch  him  from 


THE  PURE  AND  THE  POOR  217 

the  love  and  respect  of  two  women,  devastating  the 
lives  of  both,  was  dissipated  by  degrees  until  scarce- 
ly a  line  across  his  brow  was  left  to  mark  its  course 
within. 

Once  a  week  he  sent  loving  letters  home  to  Jus- 
tine, letters  full  of  tenderness  and  affection.  Often 
a  mist  of  tears  came  to  his  eyes  as  he  thought  of 
her,  wishing  that  she,  too,  might  be  with  them  on 
this  happy  tour.  At  times  he  saw  his  selfishness  and 
was  ashamed,  but  the  brightness  of  life  with  Celeste 
overcame  these  touches  of  remorse  and  he  sank 
back  into  the  soft  cushions  of  bliss  and — forgot. 
Letters  from  Justine  were  rare,  and  he  kissed  them 
passionately  and  read  them  over  and  over  again — 
before  he  destroyed  them.  Here  and  there  the 
Sherrods  wandered,  the  rich  and  loving  wife's  purse 
the  provider,  dawdling  and  idling  in  dreamland. 

At  last  she  confessed  to  him  that  she  was  tired 
of  the  Continent  and  was  eager  to  get  back  to  Chi- 
cago, where  she  could  have  him  all  to  herself  in  the 
home  over  which  he  was  to  be  master.  So  deep  in 
luxury  and  forgetfulness  was  he,  that  future  pain 
seemed  impossible,  and  he  did  not  even  oppose  her 
wish.  But  as  the  steamer  drew  away  from  the  dock 
he  grasped  the  rail  and  for  an  instant  his  body 
turned  numb. 

"Back  to  America !"  he  gasped,  realizing  at  last. 


2i8  THE  SHERRODS 

"Oh!  how  long  can  I  hold  it  off?  What  will  be 
the  end  of  it?" 

In  the  meantime,  Clay  township  was  in  a  tur- 
moil of  gossip.  Poor  Justine  was  discussed  from 
one  prayer  service  to  another,  and  with  each  suc- 
ceeding session  of  the  gossips  the  stories  were  mag- 
nified. Quite  unconscious  of  the  storm  brewing 
about  her  innocent  head,  she  struggled  painfully  on 
with  her  discouraging  work,  the  dullness  of  life 
brightened  once  a  week  or  so  by  letters  from  across 
the  sea.  Every  night  she  prayed  for  the  safe  return 
of  that  husband-lover,  and  there  was  no  hour  that 
did  not  find  her  picturing  the  delights  of  meeting 
after  these  months  of  separation. 

She  heard  nothing  of  the  wedding  that  Parson 
Marks  and  Jim  Hardesty  discussed  months  before. 
The  few  Glenville  and  Clay  township  people  who 
saw  the  account  in  the  papers  may  have  regarded 
the  coincidence  in  names  remarkable,  but  attached 
no  other  significance  to  the  affair.  Certainly  no  one 
mentioned  it  to  Justine.  Jud's  letter  swept  the 
doubts  and  fears  from  the  mind  of  Mr.  MarLs  and 
the  incident  was  forgotten. 

From  her  face  there  began  to  disappear  the  glo- 
rious colors  of  health;  the  bright  eyes  were  deep 
with  a  new  wistfulness.  But  her  strong  young  fig- 
ure never  drooped. 


THE  PURE  AND  THE  POOR  219 

At  last  'Gene  Crawley  became  aware  of  the  gos- 
sip. He  saw  the  sly  looks,  the  indirect  snubs,  the 
significant  pauses  in  conversation,  when  he  or  she 
drew  nigh.  For  weeks  he  controlled  his  wrath, 
grinding  his  teeth  in  secret  over  the  injustice  of  it 
all.  In  the  end,  after  days  of  indecision,  he  told 
himself  that  but  one  course  was  left  open  to  him. 
He  must  leave  the  country. 

But  there  was  left  the  task  of  telling  Justine  of 
his  resolve.  Would  she  despise  him  for  deserting 
her  in  the  hour  of  greatest  need?  He  could 
not  tell  her  that  scandal  was  driving  him  away  for 
her  sake.  To  let  her  know  that  the  neighbors  had 
accused  her  of  being  false  to  Jud  would  break  her 
heart.  To  run  away  surreptitiously  would  be  the 
act  of  a  coward;  to  tell  her  the  real  reason  would 
be  cruel;  to  leave  designedly  for  a  better  offer  of 
wages  would  be  base  under  the  circumstances.  In 
the  last  few  weeks  she  had  depended  on  him  for 
everything;  he  had  become  indispensable. 

While  he  was  striving  to  evolve  some  skillful 
means  of  breaking  the  news  to  her  gently,  the  popu  • 
lace  of  Clay  township  made  ready  to  take  the  mat- 
ter in  its  own  hands.  Parson  Marks,  to  whom 
nearly  every  member  of  his  congregation  had  come 
with  stories  of  misconduct  at  the  little  place  down 
the  lane,  finally  felt  obliged  to  call  a  general  meet- 


220  THE    SHERRODS 

ing  to  consider  the  wisest  plan  of  action  in  the  prem- 
ises. The  word  was  passed  among  the  leading 
members  of  the  church,  and  it  was  understood  that 
a  secret  meeting  would  be  held  in  the  pastor's  home 
on  a  certain  Thursday  night.  Justine  had  a  few 
true  friends  and  believers,  but  they  were  not  asked 
to  be  present;  no  word  was  permitted  to  reach  the 
ears  of  either  offender. 

That  Thursday  night  came,  and  with  it  also  came 
to  'Gene's  troubled  mind  the  sudden  inspiration  to 
go  before  the  young  minister  and  lay  bare  his  inten- 
tions, asking  his  help  and  advice. 

The  "neighbors"  timed  their  arrival  at  the  par- 
son's home  so  thoughtfully  that  darkness  had  spread 
over  the  land  long  before  the  first  arrival  drew  up 
and  hitched  his  team  in  the  barn-lot.  By  half-past 
eight  o'clock  there  were  twenty  immaculate  souls 
in  the  parlor  and  sitting  room  of  the  parsonage, 
and  Mrs.  Ed.  Harbaugh,  the  president  of  the 
Woman's  Home  Missionary  Society,  was  called 
upon  to  state  the  object  of  the  meeting,  Mr.  Marks 
observing  that  he  preferred  to  sit  as  a  court  of  ap- 
peals. A  stiffer-backed  gathering  of  human  beings 
never  assembled  under  the  banner  of  the  Almighty, 
ready  to  do  battle  for  Christianity.  There  was 
saintly  courage  in  every  face  and  there  was  deter- 
mination in  erery  glance  of  apprehension  that 


THE  PURE  AND  THE  POOR  221 

greeted  the  creaking  of  a  door  or  the  nicker  of  a 
horse.  When  Jim  Hardesty,  while  trying  to  hitch 
his  horse  to  a  fence  post  in  a  dark  corner  of  the 
barn-lot,  exploded  as  follows :  "Whoa,  damn  ye !" 
everybody  shivered,  and  Mrs.  Bolton  said  she  won- 
dered "how  'Gene  Crawley  heerd  about  the  meet- 
in'."  Mr.  Hardesty  never  could  understand  why 
his  entrance  a  few  minutes  later  was  the  signal  for 
such  joy. 

"It's  our  bounding  duty,"  said  Mrs.  Harbaugh 
in  conclusion,  "to  set  right  down  as  a  committee  an' 
directate  a  letter  to  Jud  Sherrod,  tellin'  him  jest 
how  things  is  bein'  kerried  on  over  to  his  house. 
That  pore  feller  is  off  yander  in  Europe  or  Paris 
some'ere's,  doin'  his  best  to  git  ahead  in  the  world, 
an'  his  wife  is  back  here  cuttin'  up  as  if  old  Satan 
hisself  had  got  into  her." 

"But  how  air  we  to  git  a  letter  to  Jed  ef  we 
don't  know  where  he's  at?"  demanded  Mr.  Har- 
desty. "I  been  workin'  fer  the  gover'ment  long 
enough  to  know  that  you  cain't  git  a  letter  to  a 
feller  'nless  it's  properly  addressed.  Now,  who 
knows  where  he's  to  be  found?"  The  speaker 
looked  very  wise  and  important.  The  truth  is,  he 
was  inclined  to  favor  Justine,  but  his  wife's  stand 
in  the  controversy  made  it  imperative  for  him  to  ex- 
press other  views. 


222  THE   SHERRODS 

"I  sh'd  think  a  postal  card  would  catch  him  at 
Europe,"  volunteered  Ezekiel  Craig.  Parson 
Marks  stared  at  the  speaker. 

"But  Europe  is  not  a  city,  Mr.  Craig,"  he  said. 

"No,  of  course  not,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Hardesty, 
contemptuously.  "It's  an  umpire." 

"Well,  I  didn't  know,"  murmured  Mr.  Craig, 
and  his  voice  was  not  heard  again  until  he  said 
good-night  to  the  door  post  when  he  left  the  par- 
son's house. 

"Mebby  somebody  could  find  out  his  address 
from  Justine,"  said  Mrs.  Grimes.  "Needn't  let  on 
what  it's  fer,  y'  see,  an'  thataway  we  couldn't  take 
no  chances  on  wastin'  a  stamp." 

"I  kin  ast  her,"  said  Mrs.  Bolton.  "I'm  goin' 
over  to  her  house  to-morry  to  see  if  I  c'n  borry  a 
couple  pounds  o'  sugar.  Dear  me,  I  never  did  have 
sitch  luck  with  watermillon  preserves  as  I'm  havin' 
this  year.  Silas,  I  leave  it  to  you  if  I  ain't  sp'iled 
more " 

"We  ain't  yere  to  talk  about  preserves,  Liz,  so 
shet  up,"  interrupted  her  better  half  sourly. 

"That's  right,  Si.  I  wish  to  gosh  I  could  shet 
mine  up  like  that,"  said  Mr.  Hardesty,  enviously. 

"Why,  Jim  Hardesty,  you  ain't  sayin'  that  I  talk 
too  much,"  cried  his  wife,  indignantly. 

"You  don't  say  'leven  words  a  day,  my  dove," 


THE  PURE  AND  THE  POOR  223 

said  he,  arising  and  bowing  so  low  that  his  sus- 
penders creaked  threateningly.  Then  he  winked 
broadly  at  the  assemblage,  and  the  women  tittered, 
whereupon  Mrs.  Hardesty  glared  at  them  greenly. 

"We  are  getting  away  from  the  subject,  please," 
came  the  mild  reproof  of  the  pastor. 

"How  fer  had  we  got?"  demanded  Deacon 
Bossman. 

"We  hain't  got  anywheres  yet,"  said  Mrs.  Har- 
baugh.  "That's  what  we're  talkin'  about,  deacon." 

"Hain't  found  out  where  Jud's  at  yet?" 

"Have  you  been  asleep?"  demanded  the  chair- 
man. 

"I'd  like  to  know  how  in  thund — I  mean,  how  in 
tarnation — er — how  in  the  world  I  could  go  to 
sleep  with  all  you  women  talkin'  to  onct  about 
dresses  an'  so  forth " 

"We  ain't  mentioned  dress  to-night,"  snorted  the 
chairman.  "You  better  'tend  to " 

"Come,  come;  we  must  get  along  with  the  busi- 
ness," remonstrated  the  pastor. 

"I  want  to  make  a  motion,"  said  the  postmaster, 
rising  impressively.  When  he  had  secured  the  at- 
tention of  the  crowd  he  walked  solemnly  to  the 
door,  opened  it  and  expectorated  upon  the  porch. 
Then,  wiping  his  lips  with  the  back  of  his  hairy 
hand,  he  returned  to  his  position  in  the  circle. 


224  THE   SHERRODS 

"I  move  you,  Mr.  Checrman — er,  Mrs.  Cheer- 
man,  beggin'  your  excuse — that  we  app'int  a  com- 
mittee to  see  how  much  truth  they  is  in  these  re- 
ports afore  we  go  to  puttin'  our  foot — er,  properly 
speakin' — our  feets  in  it  too  da — too  extry  deep.** 
There  was  a  dead  silence  and  Jim  looked  serenely 
up  at  the  right-hand  corner  of  the  parson's  clothes- 
press,  expecting  the  wrath  of  the  virtuous  to  burst 
about  him  at  any  moment. 

"I  don't  think  we  need  any  more  committee  thaii 
our  own  eyes,  Jim,"  said  his  wife,  feeling  her  way. 

"Well,  then,  if  that's  the  case,  I  move  you  we 
app'int  a  committee  of  hearts  to  work  j'intly  with 
the  eyes,"  said  James,  soberly,  still  looking  at  the 
closet. 

"I  make  an  amendment,"  said  Mrs.  Bolton 
sharply.  "Mrs.  Cheerman,  I  amend  that  we  ap- 
p'int a  committee  of  three  to  go  to  Justine  an'  tell 
her  this  thing's  got  to  stop  an' " 

"It  seems  to  me "  began  Mr.  Marks. 

"I  think  it'd  be  best  if  we'd  write  to  her  an' 
sign  no  name,"  said  Mrs.  Grimes. 

"That's  a  good  idy,"  mused  Mr.  Bolton. 

"Mrs.  Cheerman,  I  withdraw  my  motion,"  said 
Hardesty.  "I  move  you  now  that  we  app'int  a 
committee  composed  of  Mr.  Bolton,  Mr.  Craig  an' 


THE  PURE  AND  THE  POOR  225 

Mr.  Grimes  to  go  an'  notify  'Gene  Crawley  'nstead 
of  her." 

A  shiver  swept  through  the  room.  The  men 
gasped  and  the  perspiration  started  on  their  fore- 
heads. Their  wives  moved  a  bit  closer  to  them 
and  looked  appealingly  toward  the  chairman. 
Postmaster  Hardesty  had  considerable  difficulty  in 
suppressing  a  chuckle. 

"What's  the  use  seein'  'Gene?"  stammered  Mar- 
tin Grimes.  "He  ain't  to  be  reasoned  with  't  all, 
Jim,  an'  you  know  it." 

"Well,  you  might  try  it,"  insisted  Jim. 

"I  think  Justine's  the  most  likely  to  be  sensible," 
said  Bolton. 

"Course,  she'd  cry  an'  take  on  tumble,  while  ef 
you  went  to  'Gene  he  might  do  somethin'  else,  so  I 
guess  it'd  be  best  to  have  a  committee  go  over  an' 
tell  her  fust.  She  could  break  it  gentle-like  to 
'Gene,  y'  see,"  agreed  Hardesty,  reflectively. 
"'N'en  he  could  do  jest  as  he  liked." 

"Come  to  think  of  it,"  said  Grimes,  "I  reckon 
it's  best  to  write  to  Jud." 

"Then  I'll  move  you,  Mrs.  Chairman,  that  the 
secretary  address  a  letter  to  Mr.  Sherrod,  setting 
forth  the  facts  as  they  exist,"  said  Pastor  Marks. 

"I  can't  do  it  alone,"  cried  meek  little  Miss  Cun- 
ningham, the  school  teacher. 


226  THE   SHERRODS 

"We  c'n  all  help,"  said  Grimes,  mightily  re- 
lieved. "Git  out  yer  writin'  paper." 

The  secretary  nervously  prepared  to  write  the 
letter.  Her  pen  scratched  and  every  eye  was  glued 
on  the  holder  as  it  wobbled  vigorously  above  her 
knuckles. 

"I've  got  this  far:  'Judley  Sherrod,  Esq.,  Dear 
Sir,'  "  she  said.  "What  next?" 

"His  name  is  Dudley,"  corrected  the  parson. 

"Oh,"  murmured  the  secretary,  blushing.  Then 
she  wrote  it  all  over  again  on  another  piece  of 
paper. 

"You  might  say  something  like  this,"  said  Mr. 
Marks,  thoughtfully.  "  'It  is  with  pain  that  we 
feel  called  upon  to  acquaint  you  with  the  state  of 
affairs  in  your  home.'  Have  you  written  that?" 

"  'Fate  of  astairs  in  your  home,'  "  read  Miss 
Cunningham.  Mr.  Hardesty  was  looking  over  her 
shoulder,  and  at  times  his  unconscious  chin-whiskers 
tickled  her  rosy  ear. 

"  'We  are  sure  that  you  will  forgive  the  nature 
of  this  missive,  and  yet  we  know  that  it  will  hurt 
you  far  beyond  the  pain  of  the  most  cruel  sword 
thrust.  You,  to  whom  we  all  extend  the  deepest 
love  and  respect,  must  prepare  to  receive  a  shock, 
but  you  must  bear  it  with  Christian  fortitude.'  Do 
I  go  too  fast,  Miss  Cunningham?" 


THE  PURE  AND  THE  POOR  227 

'WYou,  who  toom' — I  mean — 'to  whom,  etc.* ' 
wrote  the  secretary. 

"Sounds  like  we're  trying  to  tell  him  there's  a 
death  in  the  family,"  said  Mr.  Hardesty. 

"  'Your  wife  has  been  left  so  long  to  the  mercies 
of  the '  No;  please  change  that,  Miss  Secre- 
tary. 'Your  wife  has  not  conducted  herself  as  a 
good  woman  should.  She  has  forgotten  her  wifely 
honor '  " 

"Good  Lord!"  came  a  hoarse  voice  from  the 
hallway.  The  assemblage  turned  and  saw  Eugene 
Crawley.  Jim  Hardesty  afterwards  admitted  that 
he  did  not  "breathe  fer  so  long  that  his  lungs 
seemed  air-tight  when  he  finally  did  try  to  git  wind 
into  'em." 

"What's  goin'  on  here?"  grated  the  unwelcome 
visitor,  after  a  long  pause.  He  was  half-stunned 
by  what  he  had  heard,  having  entered  the  hall  just 
as  the  letter  was  begun.  So  intent  were  the  others 
that  no  one  heard  his  knock  or  his  entrance. 

"Why — why,"  stammered  Mr.  Marks,  "we 
were — ahem — writing  to " 

"I  know  what  you  were  doin',  so  you  needn't  lie 
about  it,  parson.  You're  writin'  a  pack  o'  lies  to 
Jud  Sherrod,  a  pack  o'  lies  about  her.  That's  what 
you're  doin'.  Who's  the  one  that  started  this  dirty 
piece  of  business?  How'd  you  come  to  meet  here 


228  THE   SHERRODS 

this  way?  Why  don't  you  answer?"  snarled  Craw- 
ley,  stepping  inside  the  door. 

"We  jest  happened  to  drop  in  an' "  mur- 
mured Mr.  Bolton  from  behind  his  wife. 

"You're  a  liar,  Sam  Bolton.  You're  all  liars. 
You  come  here  to  ruin  that  poor  girl  forever,  that's 
all  there  is  to  it.  I  come  here,  parson,  to  ask  you  to 
help  me  befriend  her.  An'  what  do  I  find?  You — 
you,  a  minister  of  the  gospel — helpin'  these  con- 
sarned  cats  an'  dogs  here  to  jest  naturally  claw  that 
girl  to  pieces.  You  git  up  an'  preach  about  charity 
an'  love  an'  all  that  stuff  in  your  pulpit,  an'  I  set 
down  in  front  an'  believe  you're  an  honest  man  an' 
mean  what  you  say.  That's  what  you  preach ;  but 
if  God  really  let  such  pups  as  you  'tend  to  His  busi- 
ness down  here  He'd  be  a  fool,  an'  a  sensible  man 
had  better  steer  clear  of  Him.  The  size  of  the 
matter  is,  you  meal-mouthed  sneak,  God  made  a 
mistake  when  you  was  born.  He  thought  you'd  be 
a  fish-worm  an'  he  give  you  a  fish-worm's  soul. 
What  are  you  goin'  to  do  with  that  letter?" 

"Eugene,  will  you  let  me  speak  earnestly  to  you 
for  a  few  moments?"  asked  the  young  parson.  He 
felt,  uncomfortably,  that  he  might  be  blushing. 

"You'll  have  to  speak  earnest  an'  quick,  too," 
returned  the  other.  "Don't  talk  to  me  about  my 
soul,  parson,  an'  all  that  stuff.  I  c'n  take  care  of 


"'YOU'RE  A  LIAR — YOU'RE  ALL  LIARS.'" 


THE  PURE  AND  THE  POOR  229 

my  soul  a  heap  sight  better'n  you  kin,  I've  jest 
found  out.  So,  cut  it  short.  What  you  got  to  say 
fer  yourself,  not  fer  me?" 

"It  is  time  you  and  she  were  made  to  understand 
the  penalty  your  awful  sin  will  bring  down 
upon " 

"Stop  1  You  c'n  say  what  you  please  about  me, 
but  if  you  breathe  a  sound  ag'in  her  I'll  fergit  that 
you're  a  preacher.  It  won't  do  no  good  to  plead 
with  you  people,  but  all  I  c'n  say  is  that  she  don't 
deserve  a  single  harsh  word  from  any  one.  She's 
the  best  woman  I  ever  knowed,  that's  what  she  is. 
She's  been  one  of  your  best  church  people  an'  she's 
as  pure  as  an  angel.  That's  more'n  you  c'n  say  fer 
another  man  er  woman  in  your  congregation. 
Don't  look  mad,  Mrs.  Grimes.  I  mean  what  I  say. 
You  are  the  meanest  lot  of  people  that  God  ever  let 
live,  if  you  keep  on  tryin'  to  make  her  out  bad. 
This  thing's  gone  fer  enough.  I  know  I'm  not  a 
good  man — I  ain't  fit  to  live  in  the  same  world  with 
her — but  she's  been  my  friend  after  all  the  ugly; 
things  I  done  to  her  an'  Jud.  I  come  here  to-night, 
parson,  to  tell  you  I  wuz  goin'  to  leave  her  place 
an'  to  ask  you  to  tell  her  why.  Now,  I'm  goin'  to 
stay  an'  I'm  goin'  to  make  you  an'  all  the  rest  of 
these  folks  go  over  an'  tell  her  you're  her  friends." 


230  THE   SHERRODS 

"I'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  snapped  Mrs.  Har- 
baugh. 

"Yes,  you  will,  Mis'  Harbaugh,  an'  you'll  do  it 
to-morrow,"  said  'Gene,  his  black  eyes  narrowing 
and  gleaming  at  her. 

"Mr.  Crawley,  you  must  certainly  listen  to  rea- 
son," began  the  preacher,  softly. 

"Not  until  you  listen  to  it  yerself,"  was  the  an- 
swer. "You  are  committin'  an  outrage  an'  you've 
got  to  stop  it  right  now."  He  strode  across  to 
where  Miss  Cunningham  sat.  Pointing  his  finger 
at  the  partially  written  letter  he  said:  "Tear  that 
letter  up !  Tear  it  up !" 

The  paper  crackled  and  fluttered  to  the  floor 
from  the  secretary's  nerveless  fingers.  He  picked 
it  up  himself  and  scattered  the  pieces  about  the 
table. 

"Now,  how  many  of  you  are  goin'  to  kerry  this 
thing  any  further?"  he  demanded,  wheeling  about 
and  glaring  at  the  speechless  crowd.  There  was 
not  a  sign  of  response.  "How  many  of  you  are 
goin'  to  treat  her  fair?"  he  went  on. 

"We  intend  to  treat  her  fair,"  said  Mr.  Marks. 

"Do  you  call  it  fair  to  write  a  letter  like  that?" 

"'Gene's  right,  by  ginger,"  cried  Jim  Hardesty. 
"Shake,  'Gene.  I've  been  ag'in  this  thing  all 
along." 


THE  PURE  AND  THE  POOR  231 

"I  never  did  approve  of  it,"  said  Mr.  Bolton. 

"Nobody  could  ever  make  me  believe  'at  Justine 
ever  done  anything  wrong,"  said  Mr.  Bossman,  em- 
phatically. "You  know  how  I  objected  to  this 
thing,  Maria."  .j 

The  women  looked  nervous  and  ready  to  weep. 

"Mebby  we've  been  too  hasty,"  said  Mrs.  Har- 
baugh,  in  a  whining  tone. 

"I'm  goin'  over  to  Justine's  to-morry,  pore  girl," 
said  Mrs.  Bolton. 

"I'm  goin'  home  now,"  said  'Gene,  "but  I  want 
to  say  jest  this :  I'll  see  that  she  gits  fair  play.  Now, 
you  mark  that,  every  one  of  you.  An'  as  fer  you, 
parson,  I  want  to  say,  bad  as  I  am,  that  I'm  too 
good  a  man  to  go  inside  your  church  ag'in." 

He  went  out,  slamming  the  door  behind  him. 
After  a  long  pause  James  Hardesty  exploded : 

"Who  in  thunder  called  this  meetin',  anyhow?" 


CHAPTER   XX. 

THE    SOCIABLE. 

ON  the  day  following  the  meeting  at  the 
home  of  Parson  Marks,  Justine  was  sur- 
prised to  receive  visits  from  half  a 
dozen  of  the  leaders  in  the  church  society.  Mrs. 
Harbaugh.  came  first,  followed  soon  afterwards  by 
Mrs.  Grimes.  The  "chairman"  was  graciousness 
itself.  Crawley,  from  a  field  nearby,  saw  the 
women  drive  up,  one  by  one,  and  a  grim  smile  set- 
tled on  his  face. 

"I'd  like  to  be  in  the  front  room  just  to  hear 
what  the  old  hens  say  to  Justine,"  he  mused; 
''Til  bet  she's  the  surprisedest  girl  in  the  world. 
I  hope  they  don't  say  anything  'bout  that  meetin', 
an'  what  I  done  to  'em  last  night.  It  Vd  hurt 
her  terrible." 

Properly  subdued,  Mrs.  Harbaugh  did  a  sur- 
prising thing — and  no  one  was  more  surprised  than 
she.  On  the  way  over  to  Justine's  place  the  ex- 
chairman  had  been  racking  her  brain  for  a  motive 
to  explain  the  visit — the  first  she  ever  had  accorded 
Justine.  Mrs.  Harbaugh,  it  may  be  said,  regarded 


THE   SOCIABLE  233 

herself  as  "quality,"  and  was  particular  about  her 
associates. 

Mrs.  Sherrod  was  very  uncomfortable  and  so 
was  Mrs.  Harbaugh  during  the  first  five  minutes  of 
that  visit.  They  sat  in  the  cold,  dark  little  "front 
room,"  facing  one  another  stiffly,  uttering  dis- 
jointed commonplaces.  Before  Mrs.  Harbaugh 
realized  what  she  was  doing,  she  committed  herself 
to  an  undertaking  that  astonished  the  whole  neigh- 
borhood. 

"Justine,  I  Ve  been  thinking  of  giving  a  sociable 
an'  an  oyster  supper  next  week,  an'  I  want  you  to 
be  sure  to  come,"  she  said  in  desperation,  after  a 
long  and  trying  silence. 

Now,  the  truth  is,  such  a  thought  had  not  en- 
tered Mrs.  Harbaugh's  head  until  that  very  mo- 
ment. She  felt  called  upon  to  do  something  to 
prove  her  friendship  for  the  girl,  but,  now  that 
she  had  done  it,  she  would  have  given  worlds  to 
recall  the  impulse  and  the  words.  In  her  narrow 
heart  she  believed  the  worst  of  Justine.  How 
could  she  reconcile  her  conscience  to  this  sudden 
change  of  front?  She  had  been  the  most  bitter  of 
denunciators — in  fact,  she  herself  had  suggested 
the  meeting  of  the  night  before.  And  now  she 
was  deliberately  planning  a  "sociable"  for  the  sole 
purpose  of  asking  the  girl  to  be  one  of  her  guests ! 


234  THE   SHERRODS 

Mrs.  Harbaugh  was  beginning  to  wonder  if  her 
mind  was  affected. 

Justine  was  speechless  for  a  moment  or  two. 
She  was  not  sure  that  she  had  heard  aright. 

"A  sociable,  Mrs.  Harbaugh?"  she  asked. 

"And  an  oyster  supper,"  added  the  other,  des- 
perately. 

UI — I  should  like  to  come,  but — I  am  not  sure 
that  I  can,"  said  Justine,  doubtfully.  She  was 
thinking  of  her  scant  wardrobe. 

"Oh,  you  must  come.  I  won't  take  'no'  for  an 
answer,"  cried  Mrs.  Harbaugh,  who  hoped  in  her 
heart  that  Justine  would  not  come.  For  the  first 
time  she  bethought  herself  of  the  expense,  then  of 
her  husband's  wrath  when  he  heard  of  the  project. 
Next  to  the  Grimeses,  the  Harbaughs  were  the 
"closest"  people  in  the  township. 

While  Justine  was  trying  to  frame  excuses  for 
not  attending  the  party,  Mrs.  Harbaugh  was  just 
as  earnestly  explaining  that  "bad  weather,"  "sick- 
ness," "unforeseen  acts  of  Providence,"  and  a  lot 
of  other  emergencies  might  necessitate  a  postpone- 
ment, but,  in  case  nothing  happened  to  prevent, 
the  "sociable"  would  take  place  on  "Friday  night 
a  week."  Mrs.  Grimes  came  in  while  the  discus- 
sion was  still  on.  When  she  was  told  of  Mrs.  Har- 
baugh's  plan  to  entertain  the  "best  people  in  the  - 


THE   SOCIABLE  235 

neighborhood,"  Mrs.  Grimes  made  a  remark  that 
promptly  decided  the  giving  of  the  party. 

"My  sakes,  Mrs.  Harbaugh,  how  c'n  you  afford 
it?  We  couldn't,  I  know,  an'  I  guess  Martin's 
'bout  as  well  off  as  the  next  one  'round  about  here," 
she  said  superciliously. 

Mrs.  Harbaugh  bridled.  "Oh,  I  guess  we  c'n 
afford  it  an'  more,  too,  Mrs.  Grimes,  if  we'd  a 
mind  to.  I  know  that  most  people  'bout  here  is 
mighty  hard  up,  but  who's  to  give  these  pleasant 
little  entertainments  unless  it's  them  that's  in  good 
circumstances?  That's  the  way  Mr.  Harbaugh 
an'  me  feels  about  it." 

Mrs.  Harbaugh  was  hopelessly  committed  to 
the  "sociable."  Other  women  came  in  and  they 
soon  were  in  a  great  flutter  of  excitement  over  the 
coming  event.  Justine  was  amazed  by  this  exhibi- 
tion of  interest  and  friendship  on  the  part  of  her 
rich  neighbors.  She  did  not  understand  the  sig- 
nificant smiles  that  went  among  the  visitors  as  each 
new  arrival  swelled  the  crowd  in  the  "front  room." 
The  look  of  surprise  that  marked  each  face  on 
entering  the  room  was  succeeded  almost  instantly 
by  one  best  described  as  "sheepish."  Not  a  woman 
there  but  felt  herself  ashamed  to  be  caught  in 
the  act  of  obeying  'Gene  Crawley's  injunction  so 
speedily. 


236  THE   SHERRODS 

Bewildered,  Justine  promised  to  attend  the  "so- 
ciable." The  meaning  expressed  in  the  sly  glances, 
smirks,  and  poorly  concealed  sniffs  escaped  her  no- 
tice. She  did  not  know  what  every  one  else  knew 
perfectly  well — that  Mrs.  Harbaugh's  party  was 
a  peace-offering — and  a  sacrifice  that  almost  drew 
blood  from  the  calloused  heart  of  the  "chairman." 

That  evening  she  told  'Gene  of  the  visitation 
from  the  "high  an'  mighty"  (as  Crawley  termed 
the  Clay  "aristocrats"),  and  she  made  no  effort  to 
conceal  her  distress. 

"How  can  I  go  to  the  party,  'Gene?"  she  said  in 
despair.  "I  have  nothing  to  wear — absolutely 
nothing " 

"Now,  that's  the  woman  all  over,"  scoffed 
Crawley,  resorting  to  badinage.  "I  wouldn't  let 
that  worry  me,  Justine.  Go  ahead  an'  have  a  good 
time.  The  clothes  you've  got  are  a  heap  sight 
more  becomin'  th'n  the  fine  feathers  them  hens 
wear.  Lord  'a'  mercy,  I  think  they're  sights  I" 

"But,  'Gene,  it's  the  first  time  any  one  of  them 
has  been  to  see  me  in  months,"  she  protested,  dimly 
conscious  of  distrust. 

"Well,  I — I  guess  they've  been  purty  busy,'* 
said  he,  lamely.  Crawley  was  a  poor  dissembler. 

"Besides,  I  don't  care  to  go.    Jud  isn't  here,  and 


THE   SOCIABLE  237 

— and,  oh,  I  can't  see  how  it  could  give  me  any 
pleasure." 

'Gene  shifted  from  one  foot  to  the  other.  He 
was  beginning  to  accuse  himself  of  adding  new 
tribulation  to  Justine's  heavy  load.  He  had  not 
anticipated  such  quick  results  from  his  onslaught 
of  the  night  before,  nor  had  he  any  means  of  know- 
ing to  what  length  the  women  might  go  in  their 
abasement.  That  they  had  surrendered  so  abjectly 
had  given  him  no  little  satisfaction  until  he  had 
seen  that  Justine  was  distressed. 

"You'll  have  a  good  time,  Justine.  Ever'body 
does,  I  reckon.  Seems  like  they  want  you  to  come 
purty  bad,  too,"  he  said  encouragingly. 

"They  really  did  insist,"  she  agreed,  smiling 
faintly.  Crawley's  gaze  wavered  and  then  fell. 
Out  in  the  barn-lot,  later  in  the  evening,  he  worked 
himself  into  a  rare  state  of  indignation. 

"If  them  folks  don't  treat  her  right  over  at  the 
'sociable'  they'd  oughter  be  strung  up,"  he  was 
growling  to  himself.  "If  I  thought  they  wuz  just 
/doin'  this  to  git  a  chanct  to  hurt  her  feelin's  some 
way,  I'd — I'd "  But  he  could  think  of  noth- 
ing severe  enough  to  meet  the  demand. 

Mr.  Harbaugh  did  just  as  his  wife  expected  he 
would  do  when  she  broke  the  news  to  him.  He 
stormed  and  fumed  and  forgot  his  position  as  a 


238  THE   SHERRODS 

deacon  of  the  church.  Two  days  passed  before  he 
submitted,  and  she  was  free  to  issue  her  invitations. 
Their  social  standing  in  the  neighborhood  was  such 
that  only  the  "best  people"  could  be  expected  to 
enjoy  their  hospitality. 

"How  air  you  goin'  to  invite  'Gene  Crawley 
'thout  astin'  all  the  other  hired  men  in  the  town- 
ship? He  ain't  no  better'n  the  rest,"  argued  Mr. 
Harbaugh  sarcastically. 

"I'm  not  goin'  to  invite  Mr.  Crawley,"  said  his 
wife  firmly. 

"Well,  then,  what  air  you  givin'  the  shindig  fer? 
I  thought  it  was  fer  the  purpose  o'  squarin'  things 
regardin'  them  two." 

"We  are  under  no  obligations  to  'Gene.  Be- 
sides, he's  no  gentleman.  He  ain't  fit  to  step  in- 
side the  parlor." 

"I  noticed  he  stepped  into  one  t'other  night,  all 
right,"  grinned  Mr.  Harbaugh. 

"I  s'pose  you  are  defending  him,"  snapped  his 
wife. 

"'Pears  to  me  he  c'n  keer  fer  himse'f  purty  well. 
He  don't  need  no  defendin'.  But,  say — don't  you 
think  he'll  rare  up  a  bit  if  he  don't  git  a  bid  to 
the  party?" 

"Well,  he  won't  take  it  out  o'  me,"  she  spoke, 
meaningly. 


THE   SOCIABLE  239 

"Course  not,"  he  exclaimed.  "That's  the  tarna- 
tion trouble  of  it;  he'll  take  it  out  o'  me."  Mr. 
Harbaugh  involuntarily  glanced  over  his  shoulder 
as  though  expecting  Crawley  to  appear  in  the  door- 
way as  mysteriously  as  he  had  appeared  on  the 
night  of  the  "meeting." 

"It  don't  make  any  difference.  You'll  have  to 
stand  it,  that's  all.  I'm  not  goin'  to  have  that  low- 
down  fool  in  my  house,"  was  Mrs.  Harbaugh's 
parting  shot.  The  result  was  that  Crawley  was 
not  invited — he  had  not  expected  to  be — and  Har- 
baugh felt  obliged  to  "dodge"  him  carefully  for 
the  next  two  or  three  months. 

The  "Harbaugh  oyster  supper"  was  the  talk  of 
an  expectant  community  for  a  full  and  busy  week. 
Justine  Sherrod  apparently  was  the  only  person  in 
the  whole  neighborhood  who  did  not  know  the  in- 
side facts  concerning  the  affair.  Generally,  it  was 
said  to  be  a  "mighty  nice  thing  in  the  Harbaughs," 
but  every  one  interested  knew  that  the  influence  of 
Eugene  Crawley  prompted  the  good  intentions. 

Half-heartedly,  the  unconscious  guest  of  honor 
prepared  for  the  event.  Her  ever-neat  though 
well-worn  garments  were  gone  over  carefully,  not 
to  her  satisfaction  but  to  the  delight  of  Mrs. 
Crane.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grimes  stopped  for  her  on 
their  way  over  to  Harbaugh's  on  the  night  of  the 


24o  THE   SHERRODS 

party.  Trim  and  straight  and  graceful  in  the  old 
black  dress  that  looked  new,  Justine  sat  beside  the 
fluttering  Mrs.  Grimes  on  the  "back  seat"  of  the 
"canopy  top."  There  was  a  warm  flush  in  her 
cheek,  a  half-defiant  gleam  in  her  eyes.  She  went 
to  the  party  with  the  feeling  in  her  breast  that 
every  woman  there  would  "tear  the  old  black  dress 
to  shreds"  and  in  secret  poke  fun  at  her  poverty. 
Crawley  stood  in  the  barn-door  as  she  drove  away 
with  the  Grimeses.  There  was  something  bitterly 
triumphant  in  the  slow  smile  that  uncovered  the 
gleaming  teeth  as  he  waved  a  farewell  to  her — not 
to  Mrs.  Grimes,  who  was  responding  so  eagerly. 

"I'd  like  to  be  there, — just  to  see  how  much 
purtier  she  looks  than  the  rest,"  he  murmured, 
wistfully,  as  he  turned  away  to  finish  the  evening's 
chores. 

Despite  her  illness,  suffering,  and  never-ceasing 
longing  for  Jud,  she  was  by  far  the  prettiest  wom- 
an in  the  motley  crowd.  The  men  unhesitatingly 
commented  on  her  "good  looks,"  and  not  one  of 
them  seemed  to  notice  that  her  dress  was  old  and 
simple.  Many  a  woman  went  home  that  night 
envious  and  jealous  of  Justine's  appealing  beauty. 
Hard  as  they  felt  toward  her,  they  were  compelled 
to  admit  that  she  was  "quality."  She  was  a  Van — 
were  she  ever  so  poor. 


THE   SOCIABLE  241 

She  was  young.  The  heartiness  with  which  she 
was  received,  the  gaiety  into  which  she  was  almost 
dragged,  beat  down  the  shyness  that  marred  her 
first  half-hour.  Pride  retreated  before  good  spir- 
its, and,  to  her  own  surprise,  she  came  to  enjoy  the 
festivities  of  the  night. 

Glenville  supported  one  newspaper — a  weekly. 
Its  editor  and  publisher  and  general  reporter  was  a 
big  man  in  the  community.  He  was  a  much  bigger 
man  than  his  paper.  Few  people  in  Clay  township 
did  not  know  the  indefatigable  and  ubiquitous 
Roscoe  Boswell,  either  personally  or  by  reputation. 
His  Weekly  Tomahawk,  made  up  largely  of 
"boiler-plate  matter"  and  advertisements  in  won- 
derful typography,  adorned  the  pantry-shelves  of 
almost  every  house  in  the  township.  Jim  Hard- 
esty  once  ironically  remarked  that  he  believed 
more  housewives  read  the  paper  in  the  pantry  than 
they  did  in  the  parlor.  For  his  own  part,  he  fre- 
quently caught  himself  spelling  out  the  news  as  he 
"wrapped  up  bacon  and  side-meat"  with  sections 
of  the  Tomahawk.  But  Mr.  Boswell  was  a  big 
man  politically  and  socially.  His  "local  and  per- 
sonal" column  and  his  "country  correspondence" 
column  were  alive  with  the  gossip  of  the  district. 
If  'Squire  Higgins  painted  his  barn,  the  "news" 
came  out  in  the  Tomahawk;  if  Miss  Phoebe  Baker 


242  THE   SHERRODS 

crossed  the  street  to  visit  Mrs.  Matlock  the  fact 
was  published  to  the  world — or,  at  least,  to  that 
part  of  it  bounded  by  the  Clay  township  lines;  if 
our  old  friend  and  subscriber  George  Baughnacht 
drove  out  into  the  country  with  his  new  "side-bar" 
buggy  the  whole  community  was  given  to  under- 
stand that  it  "looked  suspicious"  and  that  a  "black- 
hsired  girl  was  fond  of  bnggy-riding." 

Mrs.  Harbaugh's  party  would  not  have  been 
complete  without  the  presence  of  Roscoe  Boswell. 
He  came  with  his  paper-pad,  his  pencil  and  his 
jokes.  Incidentally,  Mrs.  Boswell  came.  She  de- 
scribed the  dresses  of  the  ladies.  Every  one  was 
nice  to  Roscoe.  The  next  issue  of  the  Tomahawk 
was  carefully  read  and  preserved  by  the  guests  at 
the  "sociable,"  for  it  contained  a  glowing  account 
of  the  "swell  affair,"  and  it  also  had  a  complete  list 
of  names,  including  those  of  the  children. 

Now,  Mr.  Boswell,  besides  being  a  big  man, 
was  an  observing  person.  He  had  seen  a  Chicago 
paper  containing  the  news  of  the  Wood-Sherrod 
wedding,  but,  like  others,  he  was  convinced  that 
the  groom  was  not  the  old  Clay  township  boy. 
Nevertheless,  he  made  up  his  mind  to  question 
Justine,  when  he  saw  her  at  the  "sociable." 

"How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Sherrod?"  he  greeted, 
just  before  the  oysters  were  served.  She  was  pass- 


,   THE   SOCIABLE  243 

ing  through  the  parlor  in  search  of  Mrs.  Har- 
baugh. 

"Why,  Mr.  Boswell,"  she  said  gaily.  "It  is 
quite  an  honor  to  have  you  with  us.  Is  Mrs.  Bos- 
well  here?" 

"Yes — she'll  be  getting  a  description  of  your 
dress  pretty  soon,"  he  said,  glancing  at  the  plain 
black.  "My,  but  you  look  fine  to-night,"  he  added, 
observing  the  embarrassed  look  in  her  eyes. 
"Black's  my  favorite  color.  Always  sets  a  woman 
off  so.  What  do  you  hear  from  Jud?" 

"He  has  been  in  Paris,  Mr.  Boswell,  studying 
art,  and  he  is  very  well.  I  heard  from  him  a  day 
or  so  ago." 

Roscoe  Boswell  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"How  long  will  he  be  over  there?"  he  asked. 

"He  is  expected  back  this  week.  Perhaps  I'll 
get  a  letter  from  him  in  a  day  or  two." 

"Say,  would  you  mind  letting  me  have  the  letter 
for  publication?"  cried  Roscoe,  quickly.  "It 
would  make  great  reading  for  his  friends  here. 
He's  an  awfully  bright  fellow,  and  his  letter  would 
be  a  corker.  Won't  you  please  send  it  up  to  me  ?" 

"Oh,  I'm  sure  it  wouldn't  be  good  reading,  Mr. 
Boswell,"  cried  Justine,  flushing  with  pleasure. 
"They  are  mostly  personal,  you  know,  and  would 
sound  very  silly  to  other  people." 


244  THE   SHERRODS 

"1*11  cut  out  the  love  part,"  he  grinned,  "and 
use  nothing  but  the  description  of  Paris  or  what- 
ever he  says  about  the  old  country." 

"I  don't  believe  he  would  like  it,  Mr.  Boswell," 
said  she,  but  in  her  mind  she  was  wishing  that  one 
of  his  interesting  letters  could  be  given  to  the  pub- 
lic. She  wanted  the  people  to  know  how  splendidly 
he  was  doing. 

"We'll  risk  that,"  said  Roscoe  conclusively. 
"He  won't  mind,  and  besides,  he  won't  see  it.  He 
don't  take  the  paper,  you  know.  I  haven't  many 
subscribers  in  Chicago  just  now,"  he  added,  reflec- 
tively. 

"He  will  come  to  see  me  just  as  soon  as  he  gets 
back  to  Chicago  and  then  I'll  ask  him  about  it," 
she  said. 

"Is  he  coming  down  soon?"  asked  the  editor, 
going  to  his  original  object. 

"Oh,  yes.  He  will  be  down  in  a  week  or  two,  I 
am  sure." 

"Are  you — er — do  you  expect  to  go  to  Chicago 
to  live?"  he  asked,  rather  nervously  for  him. 

"Yes — quite  soon,  I  think.  Mr.  Sherrod  is  mak- 
ing arrangements  to  have  me  come  up  very  shortly. 
He  says  he  is  getting  a  home  ready  for  us  on  the 
North  Side.  Do  you  know  much  about  the  North 
Side?" 


THE   SOCIABLE  245; 

"Er — I — well,  not  much,"  murmured  Roscoe 
Boswell,  who  had  been  in  Chicago  but  once  in  his 
life — he  had  spent  two  days  at  the  World's  Fair. 
"I'm  pretty  much  acquainted  on  the  South  Side  and 
the  East  Side,  though.  Great  old  city,  ain't  she  ?" 

"I  have  not  been  there  since  I  was  a  small  baby, 
but  Jud  says  it  is  wonderful." 

"It'll  be  mighty  nice  for  you  both  when  Jud 
takes  you  up,"  said  he,  not  knowing  how  to  pro- 
ceed. He  could  not  bring  himself  to  ask  her  if 
she  had  heard  of  that  strange  similarity  in  names 
in  connection  with  the  Chicago  wedding. 

"It  will,  indeed,  and  I'll  be  so  happy.  Jud 
wants  me  so  much,  and  he'll  be  earning  enough 
soon  to  keep  us  both  very  nicely,"  she  said,  simply. 
Roscoe  Boswell  not  only  believed  in  the  integrity 
of  Jud  Sherrod  as  she  went  away  smiling,  but  he 
swore  to  himself  that  the  stories  about  her  and 
'Gene  Crawley  were  "infernal  lies." 

He  saw  her  from  time  to  time  in  the  course  of 
the  evening,  and  she  seemed  so  blithe  and  happy 
that  he  knew  there  was  no  shadow  in  her  young 
heart. 

"I'm  glad  of  it,"  he  mused,  forgetting  to  re- 
spond to  Mrs.  Harbaugh's  question.  "It  would 
have  been  a  thundering  good  story  for  the  Toma~ 
hawk  if  it  had  been  our  Jud,  old  as  the  story  is  by 


246  THE   SHERRODS 

this  time,  but  I'm  darned  glad  there's  nothing  in 
it."  Then  aloud,  with  a  jerk:  "What's  that,  Mrs. 
Harbaugh?" 

Nevertheless,  he  could  not  help  saying  to  Parson 
Marks,  just  before  the  party  came  to  an  end : 

"Mrs.  Sherrod  is  having  the  time  of  her  young 
life,  ain't  she?  She's  a  mighty  pretty  thing.  Jud 
ought  to  be  mighty  proud  of  her.  Every  man 
here's  half  or  dead  in  love  with  her." 

"We  all  admire  her  very  much,"  said  Mr. 
Marks,  with  great  dignity.  He  did  not  like  the 
free  and  easy  speech  of  the  editor. 

"I  noticed  a  curious  thing  in  a  Chicago  paper 
not  long  ago,"  said  Boswell,  whose  eyes  were  fol- 
lowing the  girl.  "Fellow  with  the  same  name  as 
Jud's  was  married  up  there.  Funny,  wasn't  it?" 

"Not  at  all,  Mr.  Boswell,"  said  Mr.  Marks, 
stiffly.  "There  are  hundreds  of  Sherrods  in  Chi- 
cago; the  name  is  a  common  one.  I  saw  the  same 
article,  I  presume.  It  so  impressed  me,  I  confess, 
that  I  took  the  liberty  of  writing  to  Jud  Sherrod  to 
inquire  if  he  knew  anything  about  it." 

"You  did?"  cried  the  editor,  his  eyes  snapping 
•eagerly.  "And  did  he  answer?" 

"He  did,  most  assuredly." 

"Well?"  asked  Boswell,  as  the  pastor  paused. 
"What  did  he  say?" 


THE   SOCIABLE  247 

"He  said  that  he  knew  nothing  about  it  except 
what  he  had  seen  in  the  papers,  that's  all." 

"That's  just  what  I  thought,"  said  the  editor, 
emphatically.  "I  knew  it  wasn't  our  Jud." 

"How  could  it  be  our  Jud?  He  has  a  wife," 
said  the  minister,  severely. 

"Well,  such  things  do  happen,  parson,"  said 
Boswell,  somewhat  defiantly.  "You  hear  of  them 
every  day;  papers  are  full  of  them." 

"You  may  rest  assured  that  Jud  Sherrod  is  not 
that  sort  of  a  boy.  I  married  him  and  Justine  Van, 
and  I  know  them  both,"  said  Mr.  Marks,  with 
final  scorn,  and  went  away. 

"These  darn-fool  preachers  think  they  know 
everything,"  muttered  Boswell. 

When  the  Grimeses  set  Justine  down  at  her  gate 
just  before  midnight,  'Gene  Crawley,  who  stood 
unseen  in  the  shadow  of  the  lilac  bush,  waited 
breathlessly  for  the  sign  that  might  tell  him  how 
she  had  fared  among  the  Philistines. 

All  the  evening  he  had  been  anxious.  He  could 
not  put  away  the  fear  that  she  might  be  mistreated 
or  slighted  in  some  way  up  at  Harbaugh's.  But 
his  heart  jumped  with  joy  when  he  heard  her  voice. 

"Good-night,"  called  Justine,  as  she  sprang 
lightly  to  the  ground.  "I've  had  such  a  good  time,. 


248  THE   SHERRODS 

Mrs.  Grimes.  And  it  was  good  of  you  to  take  me 
over  with  you." 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  ring  in  her  vo?ce. 
Crawley's  deep  breath  of  relief  seemed  to  himself 
almost  audible. 

"I  thought  you  was  having  a  right  good  time, 
Justine,"  said  Martin  Grimes,  with  a  laugh. 
"You  cut  in  pretty  free." 

"Well,  it  was  an  awfully  nice  party,"  said  Mrs. 
Grimes.  "Everybody  seemed  to  enjoy  it." 

"I'm  so  glad  I  went.  Thank  you,  ever  so 
much,"  Justine  said,  and  there  was  a  song  in  her 
voice. 

Her  step  was  light  and  full  of  life  as  she  sped  up 
the  path  to  the  door  of  the  cottage. 

"Thank  the  Lord,"  thought  'Gene,  as  he  strode 
off  into  the  night,  "I  guess  it  was  all  right  for  her, 
after  all.  She's  been  happy  to-night." 


CHAPTER    XXI. 

THE   COMING  IN  THE   NIGHT. 

SOON  after  their  return  to  Chicago,  Celeste 
began  to  observe  changes  in  her  husband's 
manner.  He  gave  up  newspaper  illustrat- 
ing and  went  in  for  water  colors  and  began  to  take 
lessons  in  oil  painting.  The  cleverness  of  Jud 
Sherrod,  the  boy,  was  not  wanting  in  the  man.  In 
a  short  time  the  born  artist  in  him  was  master- 
ing the  difficulties  of  color  and  he  was  painting  in 
a  manner  that  surprised  not  only  his  critical  friends 
but  himself.  He  toiled  hard  and  faithfully;  his 
little  studio  on  the  top  floor  of  their  home  was  al- 
ways a  place  of  activity. 

Feverishly  he  began  these  first  attempts  at  color- 
ing, Celeste  his  only  critic.  With  loving  yet  honest 
eyes  she  saw  the  faults,  the  virtues  and  the  improve- 
ment. He  worked  day  and  night,  despite  her  ex- 
postulations. The  bright  eyes  he  turned  to  her 
when  he  took  them  from  the  canvas  were  not  the 
gray,  hungry  ones  that  dulled  into  reverie  when  he 
was  alone  with  his  pigments.  His  eyes  saw  two 
dancing  faces  in  the  colors  as  he  spread  them :  one 


25o  THE   SHERRODS 

dark,  distressed,  and  weary,  the  other  fair,  bright, 
and  happy. 

There  came  to  him  a  powerful  desire  to  see  Jus- 
tine, but  with  it  the  fear  that  he  could  not  leave  her 
if  he  again  felt  her  presence  touching  his.  For  an 
hour  at  a  time,  day  after  day,  he  would  hold  Celeste 
in  his  arms,  uttering  no  word,  stroking  her  hair, 
caressing  her  face,  gloomily  repentant.  The  enor- 
mity of  his  mistake — he  would  not  call  it  crime — 
had  come  full  upon  him.  It  was  not  that  he  had 
broken  the  laws  of  the  land,  but  that  he  had  de- 
ceived— deceived. 

Men  about  town  remarked  the  change  and  won- 
dered. Douglass  Converse,  in  anxiety,  sought  to 
ascertain  the  cause,  fearing  to  find  Celeste  unhappy. 
She  was,  beyond  doubt,  blissfully  happy,  and  he 
fell  back  upon  the  old  solution:  Sherrod  was  not 
well.  The  latter,  in  response  to  blunt  questioning, 
told  him  he  was  not  sick,  not  tired,  not  worried,  but 
his  heart  quaked  with  the  discovery  that  the  eyes  of 
his  friends  were  upon  him  and  always  questioning. 

"Dudley,  dear,  let  us  go  to  Florida  next  month," 
said  Celeste  one  night  as  they  drove  home  from  the 
theatre.  He  had  drooped  moodily  through  the 
play  and  had  been  silent  as  they  whirled  along  in 
the  carriage.  In  casting  about  for  the  cause  of  his 
apparent  weariness,  she  ascribed  it  to  overwork. 


THE  COMING  IN  THE  NIGHT  251 

"Do  you  really  want  to  go,  Celeste?"  he  asked, 
tenderly.  "Will  the  stay  down  there  do  you 
good?" 

"I  want  to  get  away  from  Chicago  for  awhile. 
I  want  to  be  where  it  is  bright  and  warm.  Why 
should  we  stay  here  through  all  this  wretched  win- 
ter when  it  is  so  easy  to  go  to  such  a  delightful 
place  ?  You  must  finish  your  picture  in  time  to  start 
next  month.  You  don't  know  how  happy  it  will 
make  me." 

If  he  could  only  take  Justine  with  them!  That 
longing  swelled  his  heart  almost  to  the  bursting. 
"If  Justine  could  only  enjoy  it  all  with  me,"  he 
groaned  to  himself.  "If  she  could  go!  If  she 
could  go  where  it  is  warm  and  bright!  If  I  could 
have  them  both  with  me  there  could  be  no  more 
darkness,  no  more  chill,  no  more  unhappiness." 

As  the  days  dragged  along,  nearer  and  nearer  the 
date  set  for  the  departure  for  Florida,  he  grew 
moodier,  more  dejected.  But  one  thought  filled 
his  mind,  the  abandonment  of  Justine;  not  regret 
for  the  wrong  he  was  doing  Celeste,  but  remorse 
for  the  wrong  he  was  doing  Justine.  Sleepless 
nights  found  him  seeing  her  slaving,  half-frozen, 
on  that  wretched  farm,  far  from  the  bright  world 
he  had  enjoyed  and  she  would  have  enjoyed. 

At  last,  a  week  before  the  day  set  for  their  de- 


252  THE   SHERRODS 

parture  for  Florida  he  reached  a  sudden  determina- 
tion. He  would  see  Justine,  he  would  go  to  her  in. 
the  night  and  kiss  her  and  take  her  up  in  his  arms 
and  bear  her  to  Chicago  with  him,  there  to — but 
no!  He  could  not  do  that!  He  could  only  kiss 
her  and  take  her  in  his  arms  and  then  steal  back 
to  the  other  one,  a  dastard.  There  could  be  but 
one  and  it  was  for  him  to  choose  between  them. 

He  wondered  if  he  could  go  back  to  the  farm 
and  live,  if  he  could  give  up  all  he  had  won,  if  he 
could  confess  his  error  to  Justine,  if  he  could  de- 
sert Celeste,  if  he  could  live  without  both  of  them. 
Selfishness  told  him  to  relinquish  Justine,  honor 
told  him  to  strip  the  shackles  from  Celeste,  even 
though  the  action  broke  her  heart. 

Then  there  came  to  his  heart  the  design  of  the 
coward,  and  he  could  not  get  away  from  its  horrible 
influence.  It  battled  down  manly  resistance,  it 
overthrew  every  courageous  impulse,  it  made  of 
him  a  weak,  forceless,  unresisting  slave.  With  the 
fever  of  this  malignant  impulse  in  his  blood,  he 
stealthily  began  the  laying  of  plans  that  were  to 
end  his  troubles.  But  one  person  would  be  left  to 
suffer  and  to  wonder  and  she  might  never  know  the 
truth. 

One  dark  night  there  descended  from  the  rail- 
way coach  at  Glenville,  a  roughly  clad  man  whose 


THE  COMING  IN  THE  NIGHT  253 

appearance  was  that  of  a  stranger  but  whose  actions 
were  those  of  one  familiar  with  the  dark  surround- 
ings. There  had  been  few  changes  in  Glenville 
since  the  day  on  which  Jud  Sherrod  left  the  place 
for  the  big  city  on  the  lake,  but  there  had  been  a 
wondrous  change  in  the  man  who  was  returning, 
under  cover  of  night,  to  the  quaint,  old-fashioned 
home  of  his  boyhood.  He  had  gone  away  an 
eager,  buoyant  youth,  strong  and  ambitious ;  he  was 
coming  back  a  heartsick,  miserable  old  man,  skulk- 
ing and  crafty. 

Through  unused  lanes,  across  dark,  almost  for- 
gotten fields,  frozen  and  bleak,  he  sped,  his  strain- 
ing eyes  bent  upon  the  blackness  ahead,  fearfully 
searching  for  the  first  faint  flicker  in  a  certain  win- 
dow. He  did  not  know  how  long  it  took  him  to 
cover  the  miles  that  lay  between  the  village  and  the 
forlorn  cottage  in  the  winter-swept  lane.  He  had 
carefully  concealed  his  face  from  the  station  men 
and  there  were  so  few  people  abroad  in  that  freez- 
ing night  that  no  one  knew  of  the  return  of  Justine's 
long-absent  husband.  His  journey  across  the  fields 
was  accomplished  almost  before  he  knew  it  had 
begun,  so  full  was  his  mind  of  the  purpose  that 
brought  him  there.  Every  sound  startled  and  un- 
nerved him,  yet  he  hurried  on  unswervingly.  He 
was  going  to  the  end  of  it  all. 


254  THE   SHERRODS 

At  last  he  came  to  the  fence  that  separated  Jus- 
tine's little  farm  from  the  broad  acres  of  David 
Strong.  Scarce  half  a  mile  away  stood  the  cottage, 
hidden  in  the  night.  He  knew  it  was  there,  and  he 
knew  that  a  light  shone  from  a  window  on  the  side 
of  the  house  farthest  from  him.  It  was  there  that 
she  loved  to  sit,  and,  as  it  was  not  yet  ten  o'clock, 
she  could  not  have  gone  to  bed.  He  swerved  to 
the  south,  and  by  a  wide  detour  came  to  the  gar- 
den fence  that  he  had  built  in  the  days  gone  by.  As 
he  slunk  past  the  corner  of  the  barn  his  gaze  fell 
upon  the  lighted  window. 

He  clung  to  the  fence  and  gazed  intently  at  the 
square  blotch  of  yellow  in  the  blackness.  She  was 
there !  In  that  room !  His  Justine !  For  a  moment 
his  resolution  wavered.  Then  he  doggedly  turned 
his  back  upon  the  kindly  glimmer  in  her  window, 
and  looked  into  the  shadow.  He  did  not  dare  look 
again  upon  the  loving  light  that  stretched  its 
warmth  out  to  him  as  he  shuddered  and  cringed  on 
the  threshold  of  his  own  home,  almost  within  the 
clasp  of  those  adoring  arms. 

But,  with  his  back  to  her,  his  face  to  the  dark- 
ness, he  waited,  waited,  waited.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  hours  passed  before  he  dared  again  to  face  the 
house,  fearing  that  another  glimpse  of  her  light 
would  break  his  resolution.  His  mind  was  a  blank 


THE  COMING  IN  THE  NIGHT  255 

save  for  one  tense  thought — the  one  great  thought 
that  had  drawn  him  from  one  woman  to  the  other. 
He  thought  only  of  the  moment  when  the  light 
in  the  window  should  disappear,  when  stillness 
should  be  in  Justine's  bed-chamber,  when  no  accus- 
ing eye  could  look  upon  what  was  to  follow.  His 
numb  fingers  felt  for  the  knife  that  lay  sheathed  in 
his  overcoat  pocket,  and  he  shuddered  as  they 
touched  it. 

His  eyes  again  turned  apprehensively  toward  the 
house.  The  window  was  dark;  he  could  see  noth- 
ing except  the  dense  outlines  of  the  square  little 
building  against  the  black  sky.  There  was  a  dead 
chill  in  the  air.  The  silence  weighed  upon  him. 
He  made  a  stealthy  way  to  the  weather  boards  of 
the  house.  The  touch  of  his  numb  finsprs  against 
the  frosty  wood  was  uncanny,  and  he  drew  his 
hand  sharply  away.  For  a  moment  he  paused,  and 
his  crouching  form  straightened  with  a  sudden  con- 
sciousness of  its  position.  The  deepest  revulsion 
swept  over  him,  the  most  inordinate  shame  and 
horror.  Why  was  he  coming  to  her  in  the  dead  of 
night,  like  an  assassin,  sneaking,  cringing,  shiver- 
ing? With  a  groan  he  recklessly  strode  forward  to 
the  dark  window  frame.  His  fingers  touched  the 
glass  of  two  or  three  panes,  then  the  rags  that  kept 
the  wind  out  of  others.  In  there  she  was  lying 


256  THE   SHERRODS 

asleep,  alone,  breathing  softly,  dreaming  of  him 
perhaps.  He  was  within  ten  feet  of  that  dear,  un- 
conscious body  and  she  was  sweetly  alive — a  tender 
breathing  thing  that  loved  him  better  than  life. 
Alive,  and  he  had  come  to  take  life  away  from  her ! 

He  had  come  to  steal  the  only  thing  that  was  left 
to  her — her  life. 

With  wild  eyes  he  sought  to  penetrate  the  dark- 
ness beyond  the  glass.  As  plainly  as  if  it  were 
broad  daylight  his  imagination  revealed  to  him  the 
interior  of  the  bare  room.  There  were  his  draw- 
ings on  the  walls;  the  worn  ingrain  carpet  of  green 
and  red;  the  old  rocking-chair  and  the  two  cane- 
bottom  chairs;  the  walnut  stand  with  its  simple 
cover  of  white  muslin,  the  prayer-book  and  the 
kerosene  lamp ;  Justine's  little  work-basket  with  its 
yarn,  its  knitting,  its  thread,  thimble,  patch-pieces 
and  the  scissors.  Across  the  back  of  a  chair  hung 
her  pitifully  unfashionable  dress  of  calico,  her  white 
underskirt,  her  thick  petticoat ;  beside  the  bed  stood 
the  heavy,  well-worn  shoes  with  her  black  stockings 
lying  limp  and  lifeless  across  them.  The  white 
coverlet,  rumpled  and  ridged  by  the  lithe  figure 
that  snuggled  underneath;  the  brown  hair,  the 
sweet,  tired  face  with  its  closed  eyes,  sunk  in  the 
broad  pillow;  the  gentle  breathing,  the  regular 
movement  of  the  covers  that  stretched  across  the 


THE  COMING  IN  THE  NIGHT  257 

warm,  slumbering  body;  the  brown,  strong  hand 
that  wore  his  ring  resting  beside  the  cheek  of  the 
sleeper.  A  sudden  eagerness  to  clasp  the  hand,  to 
hold  it  firm,  to  protect  it  from  something,  came  to 
him.  He  wondered  for  a  moment  why  she  should 
need  protection — before  he  remembered. 

How  could  he  live  without  her?  The  folly  of 
trying  to  do  so !  Better,  far  better,  that  he  should 
die  and  take  her  with  him,  leaving  the  other  to 
wonder  and  at  last  find  her  young  way  back  to  hap- 
piness through  forgetfulness.  Foresworn  to  end  his 
own  misery  and  to  destroy  every  possible  chance 
that  might  convey  his  faithlessness  to  the  trusting 
Justine,  he  had  slunk  away  from  the  city,  bidding 
farewell  to  the  world  that  had  weakened  him,  and 
was  now  clinging  to  her  window  sill  with  love  and 
murder  in  his  heart.  He  had  come  to  kill  her  and 
to  kill  himself.  He  must  have  it  over.  There  was 
no  other  way.  His  legs  trembled  as  he  sped  on  to 
the  kitchen  door.  The  door  was  bolted  and  he 
sought  the  narrow  window.  It  moved  under  his 
effort,  creaking  treacherously,  but  he  did  not  pause. 
A  half-dead  fire  smoldered  in  the  kitchen  stove — 
their  kitchen  stove — and  he  sank  beside  it,  craving 
its  friendly  warmth.  He  crouched  there  for  many 
minutes,  steeling  himself  for  what  was  to  come. 
Indecision  and  weakness  assailed  him  again  and 


258  THE   SHERRODS 

again,  but  he  overcame  them;  the  fear  of  death 
made  him  cast  glances  over  his  shoulder,  but  he 
set  his  teeth;  the  terror  of  crime  shook  him,  but  he 
fought  it  away.  There  was  but  one  way  to  end  the 
tragedy,  there  was  but  one  way  to  save  Justine.  It 
would  be  over  in  a  moment;  there  was  relief  in 
that. 

How  he  crept  through  the  kitchen  and  the  dark 
sitting-room  he  did  not  know,  but  at  last  he  found 
himself,  breathless  and  pulseless,  at  her  door.  Then 
came  the  stunning  thought:  was  she  alone  in  the 
room?  Was  old  Mrs.  Crane  with  her  or  was  she  in 
the  little  half-story  room  at  the  head  of  the  stairs? 
He  shrank  back  to  the  kitchen  noiselessly.  Grop- 
ing his  way  to  the  table  he  ran  his  hand  over  its 
surface  until  it  touched  the  candlestick  that  he  knew 
was  there  as  well  as  if  he  had  seen  it.  He  lighted 
the  candle  from  the  flickering  blue  flame  in  the 
stove,  and,  shading  it  with  his  hand,  glided  swiftly 
to  her  door. 

After  what  seemed  an  hour  of  irresolution,  he 
softly  pressed  the  latch.  The  almost  imperceptible 
noise  sounded  like  a  crash  of  thunder  in  his  sensi- 
tive ears,  but  the  door  swung  slowly  open  and  he 
stood  in  his  wife's  room.  Yes!  There  was  the 
bed  and  there  was  the  mass  of  brown  hair  and  the 
white,  blurred  face  and 


THE  COMING  IN  THE  NIGHT  259 

But,  what  was  that  noise?  His  heart  stopped 
beating — his  wide  eyes  saw  Justine's  hand  slowly 
stretch  out  and,  as  if  its  owner  were  acting  in  her 
sleep,  apparently  tuck  in  the  covers  on  the  side  of 
the  bed  nearest  the  wall.  A  faint,  smothered  wail 
came  to  his  ears.  There  was  no  mistaking  the 
sound. 

A  baby! 

As  he  stood  there  in  the  doorway,  frozen  to  the 
spot,  the  candle  in  one  hand,  the  knife  in  the  other, 
Justine  moved  suddenly  and  in  a  moment  was  star- 
ing at  him  with  wide,  terrified  eyes. 


CHAPTER   XXII. 

THE    FIRST-BORN. 

SLOWLY  she  half  raised  herself  from  the 
pillow,  her  right  arm  going  out  as  if  to 
shield  the  tiny  bit  of  life  beside  her,  her 
great  eyes  staring  at  the  intruder;  the  inclination 
to  shriek  was  met  by  the  paralysis  of  every  faculty 
and  she  could  do  no  more  than  moan  once  in  her 
fear.  The  eyes  of  the  tall,  gaunt  man,  upon  whose 
face  the  fitful  light  of  the  candle  threw  weird 
shadows,  held  her  motionless. 

"Wha — what  do  you  want?"  she  finally  whis- 
pered. 

"Justine,  don't  you — don't  you  know  me?"  he 
asked,  hoarsely,  not  conscious  of  the  question,  mo- 
tionless in  the  doorway. 

"Oh,  oh,"  she  moaned,  tremulously,  and  then 
her  hand  was  stretched  toward  him,  wonder,  uncer- 
tainty, fear  in  her  eyes. 

"I  am  Jud — Jud;  don't  you  know  me?  Don't 
be  frightened,"  he  went  on,  mechanically. 

"It  is  a  dream — oh,  it  is  a  dream,"  she  whis- 
pered. 

"No,  no!     I  thought  you  were  asleep.     Don't 


THE  FIRST-BORN  261 

look  at  me,  Justine,  don't  look  at  me!  Oh  God, 
I  cannot  do  it — I  cannot!"  He  fell  back  against 
the  wall.  The  knife  clattered  to  the  floor.  Half 
convinced,  now  that  she  was  thoroughly  awake, 
Justine  pressed  her  hand  to ,  her  eyes,  and  then, 
suddenly  with  a  glad  cry,  threw  back  the  bed  covers 
and  sprang  to  the  floor. 

"Don't  come  near  me,"  he  cried,  drawing  back. 
She  paused  in  amazement. 

"What  is  it,  Jud — what  is  it  ?"  she  cried.  "Why 
are  you  here?  What  has  happened?"  The  candle 
dropped  from  his  nerveless  fingers. 

"Justine !"  he  groaned,  stricken  with  terror  in 
the  darkness.  An  instant  later  he  felt  her  warm 
arms  about  him  and  her  trembling  voice  was  plead- 
ing with  him  to  tell  her  what  had  happened.  He 
was  next  conscious  of  lying  back  in  the  old  rocker, 
listlessly  watching  her  relight  the  candle.  It  was 
freezing  cold  in  the  room.  His  lips  and  cheeks 
were  warm  where  she  had  kissed  them.  And  he 
had  thought  to  touch  her  dear,  loving  lips  only 
after  they  were  cold  in  the  death  he  was  bringing. 

"Tell  me,  Jud,  dear  Jud,"  she  cried,  dropping 
to  her  knees  beside  him,  her  hands  clutching  his 
shoulders.  Even  in  the  dim,  uncertain  light  he 
could  see  how  thin  and  wan  she  had  grown — he 
could  see  the  suffering  of  months.  A  muffled  wail 


262  THE   SHERRODS 

came  from  the  bed  and  her  face  turned  instantly  in 
that  direction.  His  hand  fell  heavily  upon  hers. 

"Whose  child  is  that?"  he  demanded,  harshly. 
She  looked  up  into  his  face  with  a  quick,  startled 
glance,  the  bewildered  expression  in  her  eyes  slowly 
giving  way  to  one  of  pain. 

"Why,  Jud!"  she  cried,  shrinking  back.  Her 
honest  brown  eyes  searched  his  face. 

"Is  it  mine?"  he  asked,  blind  with  suspicion. 

"How  could  it  be  any  one's  but — Oh,  Jud 
Sherrod!  Do  you  mean  that — that — you  don't 
think  he  is — my  husband,  do  you  think  that 
of  me?"  she  whispered,  slowly  shrinking  away 
from  him. 

"I — I — you  did  not  tell  me,"  he  muttered,  dazed 
and  bewildered.  "How  was  I  to  know?" 

"Oh,  I  have  loved  you  so  long  and  so  truly," 
she  faltered.  A  sob  of  shame  and  anguish  choked 
her  as  she  arose  and  turned  dizzily  toward  the  bed. 
She  threw  herself  face  downward  upon  it,  her  arms 
across  the  sleeping  babe,  and  burst  out  into  weep- 
ing. 

Startled  into  sanity  by  the  violence  of  her  grief 
he  cast  himself  on  his  knees  beside  the  bed. 

"I  was  mad,  crazy,  Justine,"  he  cried.  She  shud- 
dered as  his  hands  and  arms  touched  her.  "Oh, 
God!"  he  groaned.  "My  wife,  my  girl,  don't 


THE   FIRST-BORN  26$ 

shrink  from  me  like  that.  I  did  not  mean  it,  I  did 
not  know  what  I  was  saying.  Look  up,  Justine,  my 
Justine !"  He  seized  her  hand  and  covered  it  with 
kisses.  At  first  she  struggled  to  withdraw  it;  then 
suddenly  abandoned  it  to  him.  Presently  she 
pressed  it  against  his  lips,  and  then  in  an  instant 
her  face  was  turned  toward  him,  the  cheeks  wet,  the 
eyes  swimming. 

"Oh,  Jud,  you  did  not  think  it,  I  know  you 
didn't,"  she  choked  out,  and  sobbed  again  as  he 
lifted  and  clasped  her  to  his  breast.  In  that  moment 
he  forgot  his  dreadful  mission,  forgot  the  baby 
and  the  misery  of  everything,  and  she  was  happier 
than  she  had  been  in  months.  Once  more  the 
tender  and  thoughtful  Jud,  he  drew  the  covers  over 
her  shivering  body  and  tucked  them  in,  while  she 
smiled  happily  up  into  his  wan  face. 

"Don't  you  want  to  see  the  baby,  dear?"  she 
asked,  timidly,  after  a  long  time.  He  had  seated 
himself  on  the  side  of  the  bed,  his  coat  collar  turned 
up  about  his  chilled  throat,  his  red  hands  clasped 
under  his  arms.  "He  is  three  months  old,  Jud,  and 
you  never  knew.  It  is  so  strange  you  did  not  re- 
ceive my  letter.  I  could  not  write,  though,  for 
many  weeks,  I  was  so  weak.  Oh,  Jud,  you  don't 
know  how  much  I  have  suffered." 

It  was  the  first  complaint  she  had  ever  expressed 


264  THE   SHERRODS 

to  him  in  all  those  weary,  despairing  months  of 
loneliness  and  privation,  and  he  covered  his  face 
with  his  hands.  She  drew  them  gently  away,  so 
that  he  might  look  at  the  baby.  It  was  with  a 
feeling  of  shame  that  he  first  saw  his  child.  Young 
as  it  was,  it  bore  the  features  of  its  father;  there 
could  be  no  doubt.  He  gazed  upon  the  little  face 
and  the  clenched  fists,  and  a  deep  reverence  came 
to  him.  Pity  for  the  baby,  the  mother  and  himself 
overcame  him  and  he  dropped  his  head  upon  Jus- 
tine's shoulder. 

"Justine,  forgive  me,  forgive  me,"  he  sobbed. 

"There  is  nothing  to  forgive,  dear.  Don't  cry," 
she  said,  softly.  "It  will  all  come  right  some  day 
and  we'll  be  so  proud  of  the  boy.  Isn't  he  strong? 
Just  feel  of  his  little  arms.  And  isn't  he  just  like 
you  ?  I  hope  he  will  grow  up  to  be  as  good  and  as 
strong  as  you,  Jud."  He  looked  dumbly  into  her 
eyes,  still  dewy  with  tears,  and  dropped  his  own, 
lest  she  should  see  the  deceit  in  them.  But  she  was 
not  looking  for  deceit. 

"You  are  so  cold,  dear,"  she  went  on,  "and  you 
look  so  ill  and  tired.  Come  to  bed  and  let  me  get 
up  and  make  some  hot  coffee  for  you.  Why,  Jud, 
it  is  past  midnight,  and  it  is  bitterly  cold  outside. 
How  did  you  come  from  Glenville?" 

"I  walked,"  he  answered,  wearily. 


THE   FIRST-BORN  265 

"Walked?"  she  cried.  "Why,  Jud,  what  is 
wrong?  Why  are  you  here?  Has  anything  hap- 
pened to  you  ?"  Her  voice  was  sharp  with  dread. 

"I  am  the  most  wretched  man  in  the  world, 
Justine." 

"Tell  me  all  about  it,  Jud;  let  me  help  you. 
Don't  look  like  that!  It  must  be  all  right,  dear, 
now  that  we  are  together.  All  three,  Jud,"  she 
went  on,  cheerily.  "I  would  not  even  name  him 
before  you  came,  but  I  want  you  to  call  him  Dud- 
ley." He  felt  the  loving  arms  tighten  about  his 
neck,  and  there  came  the  eager  desire  to  confess 
everything  and  to  beg  her  to  hide  from  the  world 
with  him  in  some  place  where  he  could  never  be 
found  out.  The  love  for  Celeste  was  deep,  but  it 
was  not  like  this  love  for  Justine.  He  must  keep  it. 
The  other  might  go;  he  and  Justine  and  the  baby 
would  go  away  together.  But  not  yet.  Justine 
must  not  know,  after  all — at  least  not  yet. 

"Everything  has  gone  wrong,  dear,  and  I  had 
nothing  to  live  for,"  he  began,  wearily;  and  then 
with  a  skill  that  surprised  him  he  rushed  through 
with  a  story  that  drew  the  deepest  pity  from  his 
listener  and  gave  him  a  breathing  spell  in  which  to 
develop  a  plan  for  the  future. 

"You  will  loathe  and  despise  me,  Justine,  but  I 
couldn't  bear  the  thought  of  going  into  the  here- 


266  THE   SHERRODS 

after  without  you,"  he  said,  after  he  had  confessed 
his  object  in  coming.  "I  had  failed  in  everything 
and  life  wasn't  worth  living.  My  position  is  gone, 
I  have  no  money  and  I  don't  seem  to  be  able  to 
find  work.  You  were  everything  in  the  world  to 
me  and  you  were  so  proud  of  me.  I  just  couldn't 
come  back  here  and  tell  you  that  I  had  failed  after 
all  the  chances  I  have  had.  When  I  opened  your 
door  to-night  I  had  that  knife  in  my  hand.  Do  not 
be  afraid,  dearest;  it  is  all  over  and  we'll  live  to 
be  happy  yet.  God  help  me,  I  was  going  to  kill 
you  while  you  slept,  kiss  you  to  prove  to  your  de- 
parting soul  that  I  loved  you  and  that  it  was  not 
hate  that  inspired  the  deed,  and  then,  the  blade, 
wet  with  your  dear  blood,  was  to  find  its  way  to 
my  heart.  Thank  God,  you  awoke.  Had  it  not 
been  for  that  we  would  be  lying  here  dead,  and  our 
boy,  hidden  in  the  bed,  would  have  escaped  my 
hand  only  to  be  thrown  upon  the  world,  a  helpless 
orphan.  But  God  has  helped  me  to-night  and  He 
will  not  again  forget  me.  With  His  help  and  your 
love,  I  will  go  forth  again  with  new  courage  and 
I'll  win  my  way." 

She  shuddered  and  thanked  God  alternately  dur- 
ing his  story,  and  when  he  paused  after  the  firm 
declaration  to  win  his  way,  she  cried : 

"You  have  been  brave  so  long  and  I  have  been 


THE   FIRST-BORN  267 

brave,  too,  Jud.  Why  should  we  give  up  the  fight? 
I  have  hardly  enough  to  eat  in  the  house,  and  I 
have  endured  more  than  seemed  just  from  our  lov- 
'ing  God,  but  I  did  not  forget  that  I  have  you  and 
you  are  everything.  It  has  been  hard,  terribly 
hard,  but  I  did  not  give  up." 

Then  she  confessed  her  secret,  timorously  at  first, 
then  eagerly,  pleadingly.  She  told  him  of  'GenC 
Crawley's  reformation,  his  kindness,  his  real  no- 
bility, expecting  at  the  outset  that  Jud  would  be 
angry  and  displeased.  But  he  was  thinking  of  the 
future,  not  of  the  past  or  the  present.  After  a 
moment  or  two  of  surprise  and  chagrin,  he  accepted 
her  course  in  regard  to  Crawley  as  a  natural  condi- 
tion, and,  trusting  her  implicitly,  found  no  fault 
with  her  action.  He  went  so  far  as  to  credit  Craw- 
ley  with  more  manhood  than  he  had  suspected.  A 
flood  of  joy  enveloped  her  when  she  saw  that  he 
was  reconciled;  the  weight  of  her  only  deception 
was  lifted  from  her  troubled  heart. 

Already  he  was  thinking  of  the  ordeal  ahead  of 
him:  the  return  to  Celeste,  the  confession  of  his 
duplicity,  his  plea  for  forgiveness  and  leniency,  and 
then  the  life  of  peace  and  solitude  with  Justine  and 
the  boy.  He  knew  that  Celeste's  heart  would  be 
crushed,  but  it  was  the  only  way  back  to  the  path 
of  honor.  Justine  should  never  know  of  his  mar- 


268  THE   SHERRODS 

riage  to  Celeste ;  that  was  the  one  thing  the  honest, 
virtuous  country  girl  would  not  forgive.  He  even 
found  himself,  as  he  always  was  in  emergencies, 
impatient  to  have  the  ordeal  over,  to  know  his  fate, 
to  give  torture  to  one  that  he  might  be  happy  with 
the  other.  With  the  arms  of  the  real  wife  about 
his  neck,  he  trembled  with  the  desire  to  be  off  to 
the  side  of  the  deceived  one,  there  to  unmask  him- 
self, to  grovel  at  her  feet  and  then  to  fly  from  the 
world.  How  he  could  face  Celeste  he  knew  not, 
but  he  must  do  it.  There  seemed  no  way  to  lighten 
the  blow  he  must  deal  and  there  seemed  no  escape 
from  it.  He  was  a  bigamist,  a  criminal. 

To  leave  her  without  an  explanation  would  re- 
sult in  a  tireless  search,  inspired  by  her  love;  the 
discovery  of  his  duplicity  by  the  police  would  mean 
conviction;  even  Celeste  could  not  save  him. 
Shrewdly  he  brought  himself  to  believe  that, 
though  she  could  not  forgive  him,  she  would  re- 
lease him  to  avoid  a  scandal.  He  knew  that  he 
must  play  out  to  the  end  his  role  of  the  coward  and 
the  supplicant  and  the  liar. 

It  was  only  after  the  most  persistent  pleading 
that  Justine  induced  him  to  remain  with  her 
through  the  night  and  the  day  following.  She 
promised  to  keep  his  visit  a  secret,  respecting  his 
show  of  humiliation,  and  she  vouched  for  the 


THE   FIRST-BORN  269 

silence  of  Mrs.  Crane  who  slept  upstairs.  And  so 
the  would-be  murderer  and  suicide  slept  and 
dreamed  and  plotted  for  twenty-four  hours  in  the 
house  of  his  victim,  slinking  away  on  the  night 
after,  with  her  kisses  on  his  lips,  her  voice  in  his 
ears,  leaving  behind  brave  promises  and  the  vow 
to  come  back  to  her  and  the  boy  without  murder  in 
his  heart. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

THE    TALE    OF    TEARS. 

E  HAD  told  Celeste  that  he  would  be 
away  from  home  over  one  night,  and 
she  was  alarmed  when  he  did  not  return 
on  the  second  night  after  his  departure.  On  the 
third  day  she  could  not  shut  out  the  picture  of  his 
despondent  face.  When  she  heard  his  footsteps  in 
the  lower  hall  that  afternoon  her  heart  gave  a  great 
bound  of  relief,  and  all  his  plans  went  scattering 
before  her  joyous  greeting. 

He  entered  the  house  steeled  to  tell  her,  but  his 
resolution  wavered,  and,  with  the  words  on  his 
tongue's  end,  he  felt  them  forced  back  by  her 
kisses.  He  let  himself  procrastinate;  every  vestige 
of  courage  vanished  before  this  attack  of  love  and 
confidence.  If  his  response  to  her  welcome  was 
lifeless  and  cold,  she  did  not  complain;  if  he 
seemed  distraught,  she  overlooked  it  in  the  joy  of 
having  her  apprehensions  swept  away. 

"Do  you  know,  dear,  I  was  beginning  to  fear 
you  had  been  lost  in  the  snow  storm  and  that  I 
should  have  to  send  St.  Bernard  dogs  out  to  find 
you  ?"  she  said,  gaily,  as  she  drew  him  into  the  big 


THE    TALE    OF    TEARS        271 

chair  before  the  grate  and  climbed  cozily  upon  the 
arm  beside  him. 

"I  can't  tell  her  now,"  he  was  groaning  to 
himself.  "I  can't  break  her  heart  to-day — not  to- 
day." 

"Was  it  so  warm  and  pleasant  in  Milwaukee 
that  you  couldn't  tear  yourself  away?"  she  went 
on,  her  hand  caressing  his  hair. 

"Where?  Mil — Oh,  yes,  Milwaukee,"  he  stam- 
mered, recalling  that  he  had  told  her  he  was  going 
there  on  business.  "No ;  it  was  beastly.  I  had  to 
stay  a  day  longer  than  I  expected." 

"Tell  me  all  about  it,"  she  said.  "Did  every- 
thing turn  out  as  good  as  you  hoped?  Will  he 
take  the  pictures?" 

He  was  unable  to  reply  at  once.  Indeed,  it  was 
necessary  for  him  to  remember  just  what  excuse  he 
had  given  her  for  going  to  Milwaukee.  Slowly  it 
came  back  to  him.  Without  lifting  his  guilty  eyes 
from  the  coals,  he  told  her  that  Mr.  Evans  had 
not  given  him  the  order  for  the  five  paintings  until 
he  had  consulted  his  partner,  who  was  delayed  in 
'  returning  from  St.  Paul.  On  the  partner's  return 
(here  Jud's  twisted  heart  leaped  at  a  fresh  inspira- 
tion) the  firm  promptly  agreed  to  accept  all  of  his 
paintings  and  contracted  for  others  to  be  finished 
within  a  very  short  space  of  time. 


272  THE   SHERRODS 

"Isn't  that  a  very  short  time  in  which  to  do  the 
work,  Jud?"  she  inquired,  anxiously.  A  cunning 
thought  had  prompted  his  statement;  in  it  he  saw 
the  respite  that  might  be  needed.  The  task  of 
supplying  the  fictitious  order  would  command  his 
closest  thought  and  energy,  and,  by  preventing  the 
trip  to  Florida,  would  give  him  a  longer  time  in 
which  to  make  ready  for  the  trial  at  hand.  He 
saw  that  he  would  lack  the  immediate  courage  to 
tell  her,  and  that  it  would  require  hours  and  days 
of  torture  to  bring  him  to  the  task. 

"It  means  that  I'll  have  to  give  up  the  Florida 
trip,"  he  said. 

"O,  no,  Jud!  Let  the  old  pictures  go!  Can't 
they  wait?  You  must  go  to  Florida.  It  will  do 
you  so  much  good,  and  my  heart  is  so  set  on  it." 

A  new  thought  struck  him  sharply  and  his  spirits 
leaped  upward.  "You  could  go  without  me, 
Celeste.  There's  no  reason  why  you  should  give 
up  the  pleasure  because  I  have  to "  - 

"Dudley  Sherrod,"  she  interrupted,  decisively, 
"you  are  hateful.  I  will  not  go  a  step  without  you. 
It  is  you  who  need  the  rest  and  the  change.  Write 
to  Mr.  Evans  this  afternoon  and  tell  him  you  can- 
not do  the  pictures  until  next  spring." 

"I  can't  do  that,  dear.  They  must  be  done  at 
once,"  he  said. 


THE    TALE    OF    TEARS        273 

"But  you  must  have  the  two  months  in  Florida," 
she  persisted  in  troubled  tones.  "Why,  dear,  I 
have  made  preparations  to  leave  on  Saturday  and 
this  is  Thursday.  Won't  you,  please,  for  my  sake, 
give  up  the  pictures?" 

"Impossible,"  he  said,  firmly,  rising  suddenly. 
He  pressed  her  hand  softly  and  passed  from  the 
room,  afraid  to  look  back  into  her  eyes.  She  sat 
perfectly  still  for  many  minutes,  the  puzzled  ex- 
pression deepening  in  her  eyes. 

"To-morrow  I  will  tell  her  all,"  he  vowed,  as  he 
paced  the  floor  of  his  studio.  The  memory  of  the 
distressed  look  in  her  eyes  bore  him  down.  He 
knew  that  he  could  not  endure  the  sight  of  pro- 
longed pain  in  those  loving  eyes,  and  what  little 
wisdom  he  had  at  his  command  told  him  that  to 
end  the  suspense  quickly  was  the  most  charitable 
thing  to  do.  "To-morrow,  to-morrow,"  he  re- 
peated, feverishly.  He  groaned  aloud  with  loath- 
ing for  himself  and  shame  of  what  the  morrow  was 
to  bring.  "I  love  her.  How  can  I  tell  her  that  she 
is  not  my  wife  ?  How  can  I  tell  her  that  I  deceived 
her  deliberately?  And  what  will  she  say,  what 
will  she  do?  Good  God,  what  is  to  be  the  end  of 
it?  Will  she  submit  or  will  she  cry  for  the  ven- 
geance that  is  justly  hers?" 

For  the  first  time  the  agony  of  this  question  was 


274  THE   SHERRODS 

beyond  his  power  of  suffering.  His  mind  refused 
to  consider  it.  He  was  dulled;  he  felt  nothing — 
and  presently  there  was  a  relief  in  feeling  nothing. 
Up  to  that  time  his  sensitive  nature  had  responded 
to  every  grief.  Of  a  sudden  his  mind  refused 
grief;  and  the  inspiration  came  to  him  to  support 
that  refusal.  He  shut  out  thoughts  of  Celeste,  and 
let  himself  look  forward  to  the  happiness  with 
Justine  and  his  boy. 

The  next  day  he  faltered  in  his  determination 
to  tell  Celeste,  and  the  day  after  it  was  the  same. 
He  could  not  stand  before  her  and  look  into  her 
eyes  and  tell  her.  He  was  conscious  of  the  fact 
that  her  troubled  gaze  was  following  him  wherever 
he  moved,  that  she  seemed  to  be  reading  his 
thoughts.  He  grew  more  apathetic  under  the 
scrutiny.  He  took  to  good  food  as  a  refuge  from 
his  thoughts,  and  surprised  her  by  asking  for  dainty 
dishes.  He  found  some  poetry,  careless  with  fatal- 
ism, and  instantly  became  a  fatalist.  He  would  let 
affairs  take  their  course.  The  yearning  for  Justine 
dulled  a  little. 

But  one  day,  entering  his  studio,  expecting  to 
find  him  at  work,  she  was  amazed  to  see  him  with 
a  picture  in  his  hand.  He  was  looking  at  it  eagerly. 
"She  could  see  the  face.  It  was  Justine  Van. 

Justine  Van!     The  girl  of  the  meadow;  the 


THE    TALE    OF    TEARS        275; 

sweetheart  of  the  old  days !  The  first  jealousy  tore 
at  her  heart  and  she  began  vaguely  to  comprehend 
the  stoop  in  his  shoulders. 

He  had  found  the  picture  among  some  old  draw- 
ings, and  the  sight  of  it  enlivened  his  desire  for 
Justine.  He  wrote  her  a  letter,  and  then  conceived 
the  plan  of  writing  a  confession  to  Celeste,  and 
slinking  off  to  his  room  to  await  the  crash.  He 
knew  she  would  fly  to  him  and — well,  it  would  be 
like  defending  himself  against  an  assault.  He 
laughed  harshly  at  himself  as  he  contemplated  this 
last  exhibition  of  cowardice.  He  wrote  not  only 
one  but  ten  confessions,  destroying  one  after  the 
other  as  the  lingering  spark  of  manhood  flared  up 
in  resistance  to  this  mode  of  doing  battle. 

One  night  Celeste  came  to  him  in  the  dimly 
lighted  studio.  The  trouble  in  her  heart  revealed 
itself  in  her  voice  and  eyes.  He  sat  dreaming  be- 
fore the  little  grate  and  started  when  her  hands 
gently  touched  his  cheeks  from  behind. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Jud,  dear?"  she  asked, 
softly.  "There  is  something  on  your  mind.  Won't 
you  confide  in  me?  I  love  you,  dear.  Tell  me 
everything,  Jud,  and  don't  try  to  bear  it  alone. 
Don't  you  think  I  love  you  enough  to  share  the 
greatest  pain  that  might  come  to  you  ?" 


276  THE   SHERRODS 

He  tried  to  speak,  but  could  only  reach  up  and 
clasp  her  hands  in  his. 

"Can  you  guess,  Jud,  of  whom  I  was  thinking 
to-day?"  she  went  on  bravely. 

"I — I  can't  guess,"  he  said,  with  misgiving  in 
his  soul. 

"I  was  thinking  of  Justine  Van,  that  pretty  girl 
down  in  the  country.  Her  face  was  as  clear  as  if 
it  were  before  me  in  reality.  Do  you  know,  Jud, 
I  shall  always  see  her  as  she  appeared  on  that  day 
at  Proctor's  Falls.  She  was  so  pretty  and  you  were 
so  handsome.  I  thought  you  were  sweethearts, 
you  remember.  How  embarrassed  you  were,  both 
of  you,  when  I  so  foolishly  told  you  that  the  money 
I  paid  for  the  picture  was  to  be  her  wedding  pres- 
ent. I  believe  I  began  to  love  you  on  that  very 
day." 

Her  hands  were  still  pressing  his  cheeks  and  her 
heart  suddenly  stood  still  and  grew  icy  cold  when 
something  hot  and  wet  trickled  over  the  fingers. 
Without  a  word  she  drew  away  from  him,  and 
when  he  looked  up  through  the  mist  of  tears,  she 
was  passing  from  the  room,  straight  and  still. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THE    NIGHT    OUT. 

THE  next  morning  she  telephoned  to 
Douglass  Converse.  In  response  to  her 
somewhat  exacting  request,  he  presented 
himself  at  the  Sherrod  home  in  the  late  afternoon. 
Her  manner  had  impressed  him  with  the  fear  that 
something  had  gone  wrong  in  the  little  household. 
They  were  still  the  best  of  friends  and  he  was  a 
frequent,  informal  visitor.  Jud  admired  him  im- 
mensely— no  one  could  help  liking  this  tall,  good- 
looking,  boyish  fellow.  In  the  old  days  Celeste 
had  known' his  love  for  her,  but  after  her  marriage 
there  had  been  no  evidence,  by  word  or  deed,  that 
she  still  lived  uppermost  in  his  affections.  To 
Douglass  Converse,  she  was  the  wife  of  his  best 
friend. 

He  had  seen,  with  increasing  alarm,  the  change 
in  Jud's  manner  and  appearance.  The  anxious 
look  in  Celeste's  eyes  was  but  poorly  concealed  of 
late;  he  feared  that  all  was  not  well  with  them. 
There  was  no  mistaking  Jud's  attitude  toward  the 
world  and  the  genial  friends  of  old.  The  news- 
paper men  who  had  been  his  boon  companions  a 


278  THE   SHERRODS 

\ 

few  months  before  now  saw  nothing  of  him.  He 
and  Celeste  rarely  were  seen  in  society,  seldom  at 
the  theatres  and  cafes;  it  was  as  though  they  had 
dropped  entirely  away  from  the  circle  which  had 
known  them  so  well.  The  excuse  that  he  was  busy 
in  his  studio  was  sufficient  until  even  outsiders  began 
to  see  the  change  in  him.  It  was  impossible  to 
hide  the  haggardness  in  his  face. 

Converse,  sitting  opposite  Celeste  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, saw  depression  under  the  brave  show  of 
cheerfulness  in  her  face.  His  mind  was  filled  with 
the  possibilities  of  the  moment.  Over  the  telephone 
she  had  said  that  she  wanted  to  see  him  on  a 
matter  of  considerable  importance.  His  first  un- 
uttered  query  on  entering  the  hall  was:  Where  is 
Sherrod?  He  had  expected  a  greeting  from  him 
on  the  moment  of  his  arrival.  Before  the  short 
visit  was  over,  Converse  was  plying  himself  with 
scores  of  silent  and  unanswerable  questions. 

"Where  is  Jud?"  he  asked,  after  the  first  com- 
monplaces. 

"At  work  in  the  studio,"  she  replied.  He  noticed 
the  change  of  tone,  but  tried  to  look  uninterested. 

"He's  working  a  trifle  hard  these  days,  isn't 
he?"  he  asked,  casually.  Somehow,  he  felt  relieved 
on  hearing  that  Jud  was  at  work.  He  discovered 


THE   NIGHT    OUT.  279 

that  he  had  feared — something,  he  could  not  de- 
fine. 

"What  is  he  doing,  Celeste?" 

"Something  for  the  Milwaukee  people  I  was 
telling  you  about  not  long  ago.  They  insist  on 
having  the  paintings  before  the  first  of  February." 

"Before  February?  Why,  that's—"  But  he 
checked  the  exhibition  of  surprise  and  went  on  with 
admirable  enthusiasm — "That's  a  surprisingly  nice 
order.  It  proves  that  he  has  made  a  hit  and  that 
the  market  for  his  work  is  immediate." 

"But  he  is  working  too  hard,  Douglass,"  she 
cried,  unreservedly.  The  look  in  his  eyes  changed 
instantly. 

"I  was  afraid  so,"  he  said.  Then,  eager  to  dis- 
pel any  feeling  of  hesitancy  she  might  have,  he 
broke  out,  bluntly:  "You  are  very  much  disturbed 
about  him,  aren't  you,  Celeste?  I  know  you  are, 
but  I  think  you  should  find  some  comfort  in  know- 
ing that  the  work  will  soon  be  completed  and  you 
can  both  run  away  for  a  good  rest." 

"I  can't  help  being  worried,"  she  said,  in  low 
tones,  as  though  fearing  her  words  might  reach 
Jud's  ear  in  the  distant  studio.  "Douglass,  I  want 
to  talk  with  you  about  Jud.  You  will  understand, 
won't  you?  I  wouldn't  have  asked  you  to  come  if 


280  THE   SHERRODS 

it  were  not  that  I  am  very  much  distressed  and 
need  the  advice  and  help  of  some  one." 

"Isn't  it  possible  that  you  are  needlessly 
alarmed?"  he  asked,  earnestly.  "I'm  sure  it  can 
be  nothing  serious.  You  will  laugh  at  your  fears 
some  day." 

"I  hope  you  are  right.  But  it  doesn't  cheer  me  a 
bit  to  talk  like  that,  Douglass.  I  am  not  deceiving 
myself.  He  is  changed,  oh,  so  greatly  changed," 
she  cried. 

"You — you  don't  mean  to  say  his — his  love — " 
began  Converse.  "There — there  isn't  any  danger 
of — of  that?"  he  substituted. 

"No,  no !  You  don't  understand  me,"  she  said, 
drearily.  "He  loves  me  as  much  as  ever — I  know 
he  does.  It  isn't  that.  Douglass,  we  must  get  his 
mind  off  his  work.  He  thinks  of — of  nothing 
else."  She  would  have  given  anything  for  the 
courage  to  tell  him  what  she  had  seen  the  day 
before.  Her  confidence  in  this  tall  friend  was 
sufficient,  but  she  could  not  acknowledge  the  pain 
and  terror  Jud's  tears  had  brought  to  her. 

"Well,  it  can't  be  for  long.  The  work  will  soon 
be  completed,"  urged  he,  knowing  as  he  spoke  how 
futile  his  words  were. 

"But  it  makes  me  so  unhappy,"  she  cried,  with  a 
woman's  logic. 


THE   NIGHT   OUT  281 

"Poor  girl,"  he  smiled.  "Let  the  poor  chap 
work  in  peace.  It  will  come  out  all  right.  I  know 
him.  He's  ambitious,  indefatigable,  eager.  His 
soul  is  in  this  work.  Just  now  he  is  winning  his 
spurs  in  a  new  line,  and  his  mind,  his  heart  is  full 
of  it.  Can't  you  see  it  all?  Put  yourself  in  his 
place,  with  his  fine  temperament,  and  see  how  in- 
tensely interested  you  would  be.  You  would  be 
just  as  much  wrapped  up  in  it  as  he — just  as  much 
enraptured,  I  might  say.  Brace  up,  dear  girl ;  Jud 
can't  help  but  turn  out  all  right.  He's  bound  to 


win." 


"The  trouble  is — the  trouble  is — "  She  hesi- 
tated so  long,  staring  with  wide  eyes  at  the  grate 
fire,  that  he  feared  she  would  not  continue — "His 
heart  doesn't  seem  to  be  in  the  work  at  all." 

"You  mean ?" 

"I  mean,  Douglass,  that  it  is  not  ambition  that 
inspires  him  just  now.  There  is  something  on  his 
mind — something  else.  Oh,  I  don't  know  what  it 
can  be,  but  it  is  unmistakable.  He  is  not  the  same 
• — not  the  same  in  anything  except  his  love  for 
me." 

Converse  was  silent  for  a  long  time,  his  eyes 
on  her  pale  face,  his  mind  busy  with  conjecture. 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  that,  Celeste,"  he 
said  at  last,  a  deep  sigh  escaping  involuntarily. 


282  THE   SHERRODS 

"He  works  feverishly,"  she  went  on,  as  though 
he  had  not  spoken.  "Of  course,  he  is  doing  the 
work  well.  He  never  did  anything  badly.  But  I 
know  he  is  positively  driving  himself,  Douglass. 
There  isn't  anything  like  the  old  inspiration,  noth- 
ing like  the  old  love  for  the  work." 

"I  see  it  all,"  he  said,  relief  in  his  voice.  "His 
heart  is  not  in  the  work,  simply  because  he  is  doing 
it  for  some  one  else  and  not  for  himself.  They  told 
him  what  they  wanted  and  he  is  simply  breaking 
his  neck,  Celeste,  to  get  the  job  off  his  hands." 

"But,  listen  to  me,  Douglass,"  she  cried,  in  de- 
spair. "He  told  me  they  wanted  five  pictures — a 
series  of  studies  from  life.  The  series  was  to  repre- 
sent five  periods  in  the  life  of  a  woman,  beginning 
with  childhood  and  ending  in  extreme  old  age. 
But,  Douglass,  dear,  he  is  painting  landscapes  in- 
stead." 

Converse  bit  his  lip. 

"You  must  have  misunderstood  him,"  he  man- 
aged to  say.  She  shook  her  head  sadly. 

"No;  he  was  most  precise  in  explaining  the  con- 
ditions to  me  the  day  after  his  return  from  Mil- 
waukee. I  remember  that  I  was  very  much  in- 
terested. The  work,  you  know,  upset  our  plan  for 
going  to  Florida,  and  I  was  quite  resentful  at  first. 
You  can  imagine  my  astonishment  when  I  found 


THE   NIGHT   OUT  283 

that  he  was  doing  landscapes  and  not  the  figures 
the  order  calls  for." 

Converse  was  dumb  in  the  face  of  this  indis- 
putable evidence.  He  could  muster  up  no  way  to 
relieve  her  fears.  There  could  be  no  reassuring 
her  after  what  she  had  seen  and  he  wisely  forebore. 

"It  was  very  strange,"  he  said,  finally.  "He 
must  have  a  reason  for  the  change,  and  no  doubt 
he  has  forgotten  to  speak  to  you  about  it." 

"I  wish  I  could  believe  that,  Douglass,"  she 
sighed.  "He  likes  you.  You  can  help  me,  if  you 
will." 

"With  all  my  heart.  Anything  in  the  world, 
Celeste,"  he  cried. 

"Then  get  him  away  from  his  work  as  much 
as  possible.  He  won't  go  out  anywhere,  you  know. 
I've  implored  him  to  go  out  with  me  time  and 
again.  Douglass,  can't  you  think  of  some  way  to 
— to  get  him  away  from  himself?" 

She  was  standing  beside  him,  her  hand  clasping 
his  as  it  rested  on  the  arm  of  the  chair.  Converse 
looked  up  into  the  troubled  eyes. 

"Tell  me  what  to  do,  Celeste,  and  I'll  try,"  he 
said,  earnestly. 

"Make  him  go  out  with  you — go  out  among  the 
men  he  used  to  know  and  liked  so  well.  I'm  sure 
he  likes  them  still.  He'd  enjoy  being  with  them, 


284  THE   SHERRODS 

don't  you  think?  He  seldom  leaves  his  studio, 
much  less  the  house.  I  want  you  to  take  him  to 
luncheons  and  dinners — where  the  men  are.  It 
will  get  him  out  of  himself,  I  know.  Do,  Douglass, 
do  for  my  sake,  make  him  forget  his  work.  Take 
him  back  to  the  old  life  in  the  club,  at  the  cafes — if 
only  for  a  little  while.  Don't  you  understand  ?" 

"You  mean — oh,  Celeste,  you  don't  mean  to  say 
that  he  is  tired  of  this  happiness?"  he  cried. 

"He  is  unhappy,  I'm  sure  of  it.  He  loves  me, 
I  know,  but — "  She  could  go  no  further. 

"I  know  what  you  mean,  Celeste,  but  you  are 
wrong — fearfully  wrong.  Poor  little  woman! 
God,  but  you  are  brave  to  look  at  it  as  you  do." 

They  did  not  hear  Jud  as  he  stopped  on  the 
stairs  to  look  down  upon  them.  He  saw  them  and 
was  still.  The  pain  was  almost  unbearable.  There 
was  no  jealousy  in  it,  only  remorse  and  pity. 

"Ah,  if  only  she  belonged  to  him  and  not  to 
me,"  he  was  thinking.  "He  is  straight  as  a  die, 
and  she  would  never  know  unhappiness.  He  loved 
her,  he  loves  her  still,  and  she — poor  darling,  loves 
me,  the  basest  wretch  in  all  the  world." 

He  closed  his  eyes  and  leaned  heavily  against 
the  stairway.  Its  creaking  attracted  the  attention 
of  the  two  in  the  drawing-room.  When  he  looked 
again,  they  were  standing  and  staring  at  him. 


THE   NIGHT   OUT  285 

Slowly  he  descended,  a  mechanical  smile  forcing 
itself  into  his  face. 

"Hello,  Doug,"  he  said.  "I  thought  I  heard 
your  voice.  Glad  to  see  you." 

A  quick  glance  of  apprehension  passed  between 
Converse  and  Celeste.  Had  he  heard  ? 

"I  just  inquired  for  you,  Jud,"  said  Converse, 
pulling  himself  together  as  quickly  as  possible. 
"Celeste  says  you're  terribly  busy.  Don't  overwork 
yourself,  old  man.  I  dropped  in  to  say  you  are  to 
go  to  a  little  dinner  with  me  to-night.  Some  of 
the  boys  want  to  eat  something  for  old  times' 
sake." 

The  shadow  that  passed  over  Jud's  face  was 
disconcerting. 

"There  is  nothing  else  in  the  way,  Jud,  dear," 
Celeste  hastened  to  say.  "It  would  be  awfully 
jolly,  I  should  think." 

"Vogelsang  says  you  haven't  been  in  his  place 
for  months,"  added  Converse,  reproachfully.  "You 
shouldn't  go  back  on  a  crowd  like  this,  old  man. 
They'll  think  you're  stuck  up  because  you've  made 
a  hit." 

Sherrod  smiled  wearily,  then  pulled  his  nerves 
together  and  made  a  brave  show  of  being  pleased 
and  interested. 

"I  don't  believe  they'll  accuse  me  of  that,  Doug," 


286  THE   SHERRODS 

he  said.  "They  know  I'm  frightfully  busy.  Who 
is  to  be  there?" 

Converse,  with  all  his  good  intentions,  had  not 
been  foresighted  enough  to  see  that  he  might  be 
asked  this  natural  question.  It  was  impossible  to 
count  on  any  one  in  particular,  and  it  would  be  far 
from  politic  to  mention  names  and  then  be  obliged 
to  give  flimsy  excuses  if  their  owners  failed  to 
appear. 

"Oh,  just  some  of  the  old  crowd,"  he  replied, 
evasively,  even  guiltily.  Jud's  gaze  was  on  the  fire 
in  the  grate  and  Converse  was  thankful  for  the 
respite.  "They'll  be  mighty  glad  to  see  you  again. 
It  doesn't  seem  right  to  take  you  away  from  Celeste, 
but  we're  talking  of  doing  something  like  this  at 
least  once  a  week." 

''Can't  you  have  ladies'  night  occasionally,  as 
they  say  at  the  clubs?"  asked  Celeste,  merrily  en- 
tering into  the  spirit  of  the  conspiracy. 

"I  suppose  we  could,"  said  Converse,  with  well 
assumed  reluctance. 

"Count  me  out  to-night,  Douglass,"  said  Jud,  at 
this  juncture.  "I'll  come  down  for  the  next  one, 
but  just  now  I'm " 

"That  won't  do!"  exclaimed  Converse,  peremp- 
torily. "Work  is  no  excuse.  There  was  a  time 
when  you  worked  a  blamed  sight  harder  than  you 


THE   NIGHT   OUT  287 

do  now,  and  yet  you  found  time  to  eat,  drink  and 
be  merry — I  should  say,  eat  and  be  merry.  You 
go  with  us  to-night.  That's  all  there  is  about  it. 
I'm  not  going  down  and  tell  the  fellows  you 
couldn't  come  because  you  had  to  stay  at  home  and 
put  on  a  few  dabs  of  paint  that  don't  have  to  be 
on  before  to-morrow.  I'll  stop  for  you  on  my  way 
down  at  7:30,  and  I'll  get  him  home  safe  and 
sound  and  sober,  Celeste.  Don't  worry  if  he's  out 
after  nine  o'clock." 

"I  shan't  sleep  a  wink,"  smiled  Celeste,  putting 
her  arm  through  Jud's  and  laying  her  cheek  against 
his  shoulder.  Sherrod  sighed  and  smiled  and  said 
he  would  be  ready  when  his  friend  called. 

Celeste  went  to  the  door  with  her  confederate. 
She  pressed  his  hand  warmly  and  her  eyes  seemed 
to  exact  a  promise  that  could  not  be  broken. 

"Do  everything  in  your  power,  Douglass,"  she 
said,  softly. 

"He  hates  to  leave  you  alone,  Celeste;  that's  the 
worst  obstacle  to  the  plan,"  said  Converse,  his  lips 
whitening.  "But  we'll  try  to  make  him — to— I 
was  going  to  say  forget,  but  that  would  be  impos- 
sible. He  can't  forget  that  you  are  here  and  lov- 
ing him  all  the  time." 

Then  he  was  off,  confronted  by  rather  arduous 
conditions.  It  would  be  necessary  to  get  together 


288  THE   SHERRODS 

a  party  of  congenial  spirits,  and  it  was  imperative 
that  it  be  done  in  such  a  way  that  Jud's  suspicion 
might  not  be  aroused.  When  his  hansom  stopped 
for  Jud  at  7 130  Converse  was  thoroughly  satisfied 
with  the  result  of  his  expedition  in  search  of  guests, 
but  he  was  conscious  of  a  fear  that  the  attempt  to 
take  Sherrod  "out  of  himself"  would  be  a  failure. 

A  half-dozen  good  fellows  of  the  old  days  had 
promised  to  come  to  Vogelsang's  at  eight,  and, 
under  ordinary  circumstances,  there  was  no  reason 
why  the  night  should  not  be  a  merry  one.  It  all 
rested  with  Jud.  Converse  was  gratified  to  find  his 
friend  in  excellent  spirits.  His  eyes  were  bright, 
his  face  was  alive  with  interest.  The  change  was 
so  marked  that  Converse  marveled  while  Celeste 
rejoiced. 

If  he  had  any  doubts  at  the  beginning,  they  were 
dispelled  long  before  the  night  was  over.  Sher- 
rod's  humor  was  wild,  unnatural.  To  Converse  it 
soon  became  ghastly.  To  the  others,  it  was  merely 
cause  for  wonder  and  the  subject  for  many  a  sly 
remark  about  the  "muchly  married  man  who  finally 
gets  a  night  off." 

Going  homeward  in  the  hansom,  Converse,  now 
convinced  that  Jud's  mind  was  disordered,  asked  in 
considerable  trepidation  if  he  really  meant  to  dine 
out  every  evening,  as  he  had  said  to  the  others  at 


THE   NIGHT    OUT.  289 

the  table.  Sherrod's  hilarity,  worked  up  for  the 
occasion,  had  subsided.  He  was,  to  the  utter  be- 
wilderment of  his  companion,  the  personification 
of  gloominess.  Involuntarily  Converse  moved 
away  from  his  side,  unable  to  conquer  the  fear  that 
the  man  was  actually  mad. 

"Did  I  say  that?"  came  in  slow,  mournful  tones 
from  the  drooping  figure  beside  him. 

"Yes,"  was  all  that  Converse  could  reply.  Sher- 
rod's chin  was  on  his  breast,  his  arms  hanging 
limply  to  the  seat. 

"I  don't  believe  I  care  much  for  that  sort  of 
thing  any  more,"  he  said,  slowly. 

"Why,  Jud,  I  thought  you  had  a  bully  time  to- 
night," cried  Converse,  in  hurt  tones. 

Sherrod  looked  up  instantly.  After  a  moment's 
silence,  his  hand  fell  on  the  other's  knee  and  there 
was  something  piteous  in  his  voice  when  he  spoke. 

"Did  you,  old  man?  How  in  the  world — " 
here  he  brought  himself  up  with  a  jerk — "I  should 
say,  how  could  I  help  having  a  good  time?"  he 
cried,  enthusiastically.  "They  are  the  best  lot  of 
fellows  in  the  world.  I  had  the  time  of  my  life." 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE     LETTER     TO     CRAWLEY. 

JUSTINE  waited  and  waited  patiently.  His 
midnight  visit  was  the  most  dramatic  event 
of  her  life.  That  he  had  come  to  kill  her 
and  then  himself  she  was  slow  in  realizing.  As 
the  days  and  nights  went  by,  the  real  horror  of  his 
thought  took  root  and  grew.  Sometimes  she 
awakened  in  the  night  cold  with  perspiration, 
dreading  to  see  the  white-faced  man  in  the  door- 
way. In  some  of  her  dreams  he  stood  above  her, 
knife  uplifted,  his  face  full  of  unspeakable  malev- 
olence. Waking  she  would  scream  aloud  and  in- 
stinctively she  would  draw  her  baby  close  to  her 
breast  as  if  seeking  protection  from  this  tiny 
guardian. 

His  letter,  intended  to  inspire  confidence  and 
hope,  was  not  skillful  enough  to  deceive  even  Jus- 
tine. She  could  read  between  the  lines  and  there 
she  could  see  that  he  was  hiding  something  from 
her.  She  could  not  help  feeling  that  he  was  facing 
failure  and  that  he  was  miserable.  With  every 
mail  she  expected  to  receive  a  letter  from  him  in 
which  he  would  announce  that  he  had  given  up  the 


THE  LETTER   TO  CRAWLEY  291 

fight,  and  then  would  come  the  dispatch  bearing  the 
news  that  he  had  killed  himself. 

Mrs.  Crane  knew,  of  course,  of  Sherrod's  strange 
visit.  'Gene  Crawley  saw  him  but  once  on  that 
occasion,  looking  gloomily  from  the  window.  THe 
two  men  did  not  speak  to  each  other,  although 
Crawley  would  have  called  a  greeting  to  him  had 
not  the  man  in  the  window  turned  away  abruptly 
as  soon  as  he  met  the  gaze  of  the  one  in  the  barn- 
yard. The  only  human  creature  about  the  little 
farm  who  did  not  feel  the  oppressiveness  was  the 
baby,  Dudley  the  second.  He  was  a  healthy, 
happy  child,  and,  birth-gift  of  tragedy  though  he 
was,  he  brought  sunshine  to  the  sombre  home. 

One  day,  three  weeks  after  Jud's  visit,  Justine 
approached  'Gene  as  he  crossed  the  lot  on  his  way 
to  feed  the  stock  in  the  sheds.  A  team  of  horses 
occupied  stalls  in  the  barn,  but  they  were  not  Jus- 
tine's. When  her  horses  had  died,  'Gene,  from 
the  savings  of  many  months,  had  bought  a  team 
of  his  own,  and  his  animals  were  doing  the  work 
on  her  place.  The  cow  and  the  hogs  and  the 
chickens  belonged  to  Justine — and  Jud.  Crawley 
observed  an  unusual  pallor  in  her  face  and  her 
eyes  were  dark  with  pain  and  trouble. 

'  'Gene,  I  can't  get  it  out  of  my  mind  that  every- 


292  THE   SHERRODS 

thing  is  not  going  well  with  Jud,"  she  said,  as  he 
came  up  to  her. 

"Wasn't  he  all  right  when  he  was  here?"  asked 
he,  slowly.  She  had  to  hesitate  for  a  moment 
before  she  could  answer  the  question.  She  must 
choose  her  words. 

"He  has  not  been  well,  'Gene,"  she  said  at  last. 
"You  know  sickness  is  a  dreadfully  discouraging 
thing  in  a  big  place  like  Chicago.  Nobody  cares 
whether  you  get  well  or  die,  and  if  you  get  too  sick 
to  work  some  one  else  takes  your  place.  Jud  has 
had  a  lot  of  bad  luck  and  I  know  he's  sick  and 
discouraged." 

"He  didn't  look  right  well  when  he  was  here," 
admitted  'Gene.  "I  wouldn't  git  upset  about  it,  'f 
I  was  you,  Justine.  He'll  come  out  all  right." 

"But  maybe  he  is  sick  and  can't  do  anything," 
she  persisted.  "When  he  was  here  he  said  he'd 
been  out  of  work  and  in  a  hospital  for  a  long  time." 

"Out  of  work?"  repeated  he,  slowly. 

"Yes,"  she  went  on,  hurriedly,  now  that  she  had 
begun  the  confession,  "and  he  is  in  debt,  too.  It 
costs  so  much  money  to  live  up  there,  and  if  one 
gets  behind  it's  hard  to  catch  up,  he  says.  Oh, 
'Gene,  do  you  suppose  anything  has  happened  to 
him?  I  have  had  no  letter  since  last  Thursday 


THE   LETTER    TO    CRAWLED    293 

and  this  is  Wednesday,  isn't  it  ?  I  know  he  is  sick, 
I  know  it,  'Gene." 

"Ain't  he  on  the  paper  any  more?" 

"He  has  been  off  the  paper  for  months." 

"Doin'nothin'?" 

"Some  private  work,  but  it  hasn't  paid  well. 
And,  besides,  he  hasn't  been  well.  That's  held  him 
back." 

"What  did  he  say  when  he  was  here?  Did  he 
have  a  job  in  view?" 

"No,"  she  answered,  shame  outfacing  her  pride. 
Neither  spoke  for  a  long  time.  She  was  looking 
intently  at  the  frozen  ground,  nervously  clasping 
and  unclasping  her  fingers.  His  black  eyes  were 
upon  the  white,  drooping  face,  and  his  slow  mind 
was  beginning  to  see  light.  His  heart  began  to 
swell  with  rage  against  the  man  who  had  won  this 
prize  and  could  not  protect  it. 

With  the  shrewdness  of  the  countryman,  he  con- 
cluded that  Jud  had  not  been  able  to  combat  the 
temptations  of  the  great  city.  He  had  failed  be- 
cause he  had  fallen.  He  cast  a  slow  glance  at 
Justine.  Her  head  was  bent  and  her  hands  were 
clasping  and  unclasping.  He  knew  what  it  was 
costing  her  to  make  confession  to  him  and  lifted 
his  head  with  the  joy  of  feeling  that  she  had  come 
to  him  for  sympathy. 


294  THE   SHERRODS 

"Why  don't  he  come  home  if  he's  sick?"  he 
asked.  "He  could  rest  up  down  here  an' — an* 
mebby  that'd  git  him  on  his  feet  ag'in." 

"He  doesn't  like  to  give  up,  that's  all.  You 
know  how  brave  and  true  he  is,  'Gene.  It  would 
be  awful  to  come  back  here  and  admit  that — that 
he  couldn't  get  along  up  there.  O,  I  wish  he  would 
come  back,  I  wish  he  would  come  back,"  she  wailed, 
breaking  down  completely.  The  tears  forced  them- 
selves through  the  fingers  that  were  pressed  to  her 
eyes. 

"God  A'mighty,  how  she  loves  him,"  groaned 
Crawley  to  himself.  In  this  moment  the  big 
blasphemer  of  other  days  loved  her  more  deeply 
than  ever  before  in  his  dark,  hopeless  life. 
"Couldn't  you — you  write  an'  tell  him  to  come 
down  here  fer  a  couple  of  weeks  or — or  a  month?" 
he  stammered,  after  a  moment  of  thought. 

"He  wouldn't  come,  'Gene,  he  wouldn't  come," 
she  sobbed.  "He  said  he  would  not  give  up  until 
he  had  made  a  home  for  me  up  there.  When  he 
came  the  last  time  he  was  discouraged,  but — but 
he  got  over  it  and — and — Oh,  I  wish  he  would 
write  to  me !  The  suspense  is  killing  me." 

Crawley  had  turned  his  back  and  was  leaning 
against  the  fence. 

"He  needs  me,  'Gene,"  she  said;  "he  needs  me 
to  cheer  him  on.  I  ought  to  be  with  him  up  there." 


He  started  sharply  and  turned  to  her.  She  was 
looking  into  his  eyes,  and  her  hands  were  half  lifted 
toward  him. 

"He  is  so  lonely  and  I'm  sure  he  is  sick.  I  must 
go  to  him — I  must.  That's  what  I  want  to  talk 
to  you  about.  How  am  I  to  go  to  him?  What 
shall  I  do  ?  I  can't  bear  it  any  longer.  My  place 
is  with  him." 

"If  he  ain't  got  a  job,  Justine,  you'll — you'll 
be " 

"You  want  to  say  that  I'll  be  a  burden  to  him, 
that's  it,  isn't  it?  But  I'll  work  for  him.  I'll  do 
anything.  If  he's  sick,  I'll  wash  and  iron  and  sew 
and  scrub  and — oh,  anything.  I've  been  thinking 
about  it  since  last  night,  and  you  must  not  consider 
me  foolish  when  I  tell  you  what  I  want  to  do.  I 
want  to  borrow  some  money  on  the  place." 

"You  mean  you  want  to  put  a  morgidge  on  the 
— on  the  farm?"  he  asked,  slowly. 

"How  else  can  I  get  the  money,  'Gene?  A  small 
mortgage  won't  be  so  bad,  will  it?  What  is  the 
farm  worth  ?"  She  was  feverish  with  excitement. 

"It's  not  the  best  of  land,  you  know,  and  there 
ain't  no  improvements,"  he  said,  still  more  delib- 
erately. "You  might  sell  the  place  for  $800,  but 
I  doubt  it." 


296  THE   SHERRODS 

"I  won't  sell  it;  it  must  be  kept  for  my  boy. 
But  I  can  borrow  a  little  on  it,  can't  I  ?  Wouldn't 
David  Strong  let  me  have  $200  on  it?" 

"Good  Lord,  Justine,  don't  put  a  morgidge  on 
the  place  1"  he  cried.  "That  will  be  the  end  of  it. 
It's  the  way  it  always  goes.  Don't  do  anything 
like  that." 

"There  is  no  other  way  to  get  the  money  and 
I — I  am  going  to  Jud,"  she  said,  determinedly, 
and  he  saw  the  light  in  her  eye. 

In  the  end  he  promised  to  secure  the  money  for 
her,  and  he  did.  The  next  day  Martin  Grimes 
loaned  Eugene  Crawley  $150,  taking  a  chattel 
mortgage  on  a  farm  wagon  and  harness  and  the 
two  big  bay  horses  that  stood  in  Justine's  barn.  At 
first  she  refused  to  take  the  money,  but  his  insistence 
prevailed,  and  three  days  later  she  and  her  boy  left 
Glenville  for  Chicago  and  Jud.  She  promised  to 
acquaint  Crawley  with  Jud's  true  condition  and 
their  plans  for  the  future. 

Crawley  said  good-bye  to  her  as  she  climbed  into 
Harve  Crose's  wagon  on  the  day  of  departure.  He 
wished  her  luck  in  a  harsh,  unnatural  tone,  and 
abruptly  turned  to  the  barn.  For  hours  he  sat  in 
the  cold  mow,  disconsolate,  exalted.  His  horses 
stamping  below  were  mortgaged !  Lost  to  him,  no 
doubt,  but  he  gloried  in  the  sacrifice.  He  had  given 


THE  LETTER  TO  CRAWLEY  297 

his  fortune  to  gratify  her  longing  to  be  with  the 
man  she  loved. 

At  sunset  he  trudged  to  the  tollgate.  An  unrea- 
soning longing  filled  his  lonely  heart.  When  he 
asked  for  the  mail  there  was  uppermost  in  his  mind 
the  hope  of  a  letter  from  her,  although  she  had 
been  gone  not  more  than  five  hours.  His  loneliness 
increased  when  Mrs.  Hardesty  said  that  there  was 
no  mail  for  him  or  Justine.  For  the  first  time  in 
months  he  felt  the  old  longing  for  drink. 

"Jestine  gone  to  Chickago  fer  a  visit  er  to  stay?" 
asked  Jim  Hardesty,  when  Crawley  joined  the 
crowd  that  lounged  about  the  big  sheet-iron  stove 
in  the  store. 

'Gene  did  some  very  quick  thinking  in  the  next 
few  minutes.  He  realized  that  her  departure  had 
been  the  subject  of  comment  and  speculation,  and 
that  it  would  be  necessary  for  him  to  resort  to 
something  he  knew  nothing  about — diplomacy. 
Had  he  been  an  observing  man  he  would  have 
noticed  the  sudden  cessation  of  talk  about  the  stove 
when  he  first  entered  the  toll  house.  The  loungers 
had  been  discussing  her  departure,  and  there  would 
have  been  a  murderer  in  their  midst  had  'Gene 
Crawley  heard  the  remark  that  fell  from  Luther 
Hitchcock's  lips. 

"Don't  know  how  long  she'll  stay,"  responded 


298  THE   SHERRODS 

'Gene,  briefly.  He  leaned  against  the  counter* 
crossing  his  legs. 

"How's  Jed  gittin'  'long  up  yander?"  continued 
Jim. 

"All  right,  I  reckon." 

"Justine  hain't  been  lookin*  very  well  lately," 
said  Link  Overshine,  from  the  nail-keg. 

"Hain't  looked  herself  sence  the  kid  come," 
added  Hitchcock. 

"When  did  she  last  hear  from  Jud?"  asked 
Link. 

"Talkin'  to  me?"  asked  Crawley. 

"Yes." 

"Well,  how  do  you  s'pose  I  know  anything  about 
her  letters?" 

"Don't  you  git  the  mail?" 

"Harve  Crose  leaves  it  as  he  goes  by,  an'  you 
know  it,  Overshine." 

"She  ain't  had  a  letter  from  him  in  more'n  a 
week,"  volunteered  the  postmaster.  "He  don't 
write  very  reg'lar  here  of  late." 

"Does  the  gover'ment  hire  you  to  tell  who  gits 
letters  through  this  office  an'  when  they  git  'em?" 
demanded  Crawley,  sharply.  Jim  hitched  back  in 
his  chair  nervously. 

"Why,  they  ain't  no  harm  in  that,"  explained  he. 


THE  LETTER   TO  CRAWLEY  299 

"You  talk  too  much  fer  a  job  like  this,  Jim," 
said  Crawley. 

There  followed  a  few  moments  of  silence. 

"One  of  Grimes'  men  says  you  morgidged  your 
team  to  the  old  man,"  began  Overshine. 

"Which  one  of  Grimes'  men  said  that?"  asked 
'Gene,  quietly. 

"Why,  I — er — lemme  see,  who  did  say  it?" 
floundered  Link,  in  distress. 

"Oh,  it  don't  matter,"  said  'Gene,  carelessly.  "I 
just  asked." 

The  subject  was  dropped  at  once.  The  crowd 
watched  him  leave  the  place  and  conversation  was 
stagnant  until  Hardesty,  who  was  near  the  window, 
remarked  that  'Gene  was  walking  pretty  rapidly 
down  the  road.  With  the  knowledge  that  he  was 
out  of  sight  and  hearing,  the  loungers  discussed  him 
and  his  affairs  freely. 

It  was  not  until  the  fourth  day  that  he  received 
a  letter  from  Chicago,  directed  in  strange  hand- 
writing. A  number  of  men  were  in  the  store  when 
the  epistle  was  handed  out  to  him  by  Mrs.  Har- 
desty. Without  hesitation  he  tore  open  the  en- 
velope and  began  to  read.  The  letter  was  for  him, 
beyond  a  doubt,  but  Justine  had  not  addressed  the 
envelope.  What  had  happened  to  her? 

He  read  the  letter  with  at  least  a  dozen  eyes 


3oo  THE   SHERRODS 

watching  him  closely,  but  his  dark  face  betrayed  no 
sign  of  emotion.  At  the  end  he  calmly  replaced 
the  note  in  the  envelope  and  strolled  off  homeward. 
Once  out  of  the  hearing  of  the  curious,  he  leaned 
against  a  fence,  read  it  again,  folded  it  carefully, 
opened  it  and  read  it  again,  and  then  lowered  his 
hands  and  gazed  out  over  the  fields. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

TWO     WOMEN    AND    A     BABE. 

MR.  SHERROD  is  not  working  for 
the  paper  now,"  responded  a  man 
in  the  counting  room  when  Justine, 
overawed,  applied  for  information  at  the  office  of 
the  newspaper  in  which  her  husband's  pictures  had 
attracted  such  widespread  notice.  At  the  station  a 
policeman  had  put  her  in  a  cab  with  directions  to 
the  driver.  With  her  baby  and  her  pitiful  old 
satchel,  she  was  jolted  over  the  streets  and  up  to 
the  door  of  the  newspaper  office.  She  felt  small, 
helpless,  lost  in  this  vast  solitude  of  noises.  The 
rush  of  vehicles,  cars  and  people  frightened  her. 
Every  moment  she  expected  there  would  be  a  col- 
lision and  catastrophe.  And  Jud  was  somewhere 
in  this  seething,  heartless  city,  sick,  unhappy,  dis- 
tcouraged  and  longing  for  her. 

"I  know,"  she  responded,  thickly,  to  the  clerk, 
whose  glance  had  been  cold  and  whose  tones  were 
curt.  "He  left  here  some  months  ago,  but  he  gets 
his  mail  here." 

"Does  he?"  brusquely. 


302  THE   SHERRODS 

"I  address  all  of  my  letters  to  this  office  and  he 
gets  them." 

"Country  as  can  be,"  thought  the  clerk,  his  eye 
sweeping  over  her,  "but  devilish  pretty.  Lord, 
what  eyes  she's  got."  Then  aloud,  with  a  trifle 
more  cordiality:  "I'll  ask  Mr.  Brokell  if  he  knows 
where  Sherrod  lives.  Just  wait  a  minute,  please." 
As  he  walked  away  there  was  one  thought  in  his 
mind:  "Sherrod  is  a  lucky  dog  if  he  can  get  this 
woman  to  leave  her  happy  home  for  him."  In  a 
few  minutes  he  returned  with  the  information  that 
the  address  was  not  known  in  the  office,  but  that  he 
would  be  glad  to  assist  her  in  the  search.  She 
thanked  him  and  walked  away.  Somehow  she  did 
not  like  to  meet  the  eye  of  this  man.  There  was  in 
it  an  expression  she  had  never  seen  before,  she  who 
had  looked  only  into  the  honest  faces  of  country- 
men. 

The  shock  of  the  clerk's  blunt  announcement 
that  Jud's  address  was  not  known  to  any  one  then 
in  the  office  was  stupefying.  So  stunned  with  sur- 
prise was  she  that  her  wits  did  not  return  until  she 
found  herself  caught  up  by  the  rushing  throng  on 
the  sidewalk.  When  she  paused  in  the  aimless 
progress  through  the  crowd  she  was  far  from  the 
newspaper  office  and  paralyzed  by  the  realization 
that  she  and  the  baby  had  nowhere  to  go.  In  sheer 


TWO    WOMEN   AND    A    BABE    303 

terror  she  stopped  still  and  looked  about  with  the 
manner  of  one  who  is  aroused  from  a  faint  and 
finds  a  strange  world  looking  on  in  sympathetic  cu- 
riosity. 

Busy  men  jostled  her  rudely,  thoughtlessly; 
women  arrayed  as  she  had  seen  but  one  in  her  life, 
stared  at  her  as  she  stood  frightened  and  unde- 
cided in  the  middle  of  the  sidewalk.  There  was 
no  friendly  face,  no  kindly  hand  in  all  that  rushing 
crowd.  Scarcely  realizing  what  she  did,  she  asked 
a  man  who  leaned  against  the  building  nearby  if  he 
knew  Dudley  Sherrod.  The  man  stared  at  her 
blankly  for  an  instant,  a  sarcastic  grin  flashing 
across  his  hard  face.  The  smile  faded  instantly, 
however,  for,  street  loafer  though  he  was,  he  saw 
the  agony  in  her  eyes,  and  knew  that  she  had  lost 
her  way.  With  a  politeness  that  surprised  him- 
self, he  answered  in  the  negative  and  then  advised 
her  to  consult  a  directory. 

She  looked  so  helpless  and  unhappy  that  he  vol- 
unteered to  lead  her  to  the  nearest  drug  store.  She 
followed  him  across  the  street,  her  baby  on  one 
arm,  the  big  "telescope"  bumping  against  her  tired 
leg  as  she  lugged  it  with  the  other  hand.  The  city 
directory  gave  Dudley  Sherrod's  address  as  1837 

E street,  but  she  remembered  that  he  had  left 

this  place  nearly  a  year  before.  Her  friend,  the 


304  THE   SHERRODS 

lounger,  advised  her  to  appeal  to  the  police,  but  she 
revolted  against  anything  suggestive  of  the  "crim- 
inal." To  ask  the  police  to  look  for  her  husband 
was  to  her  shocking. 

A  clerk  in  the  store  was  appealed  to  by  the 
lounger,  and  that  individual  agreed  with  him  that 
the  police  alone  could  find  "the  Man,"  if  he  was 
to  be  found  at  all.  All  this  was  adding  new  terror. 
Tears  came  to  Justine's  eyes  and  she  did  not  try  to 
dash  them  away  .  Pride  was  conquered  by  despair. 
The  clerk,  taking  matters  in  his  own  hands,  called 
in  a  passing  policeman,  and  bluntly  told  her  to  state 
the  situation  to  him. 

"In  the  fir'rst  place,  ma'am,  d'ye  know  the  felly 
here?"  asked  the  officer,  regarding  the  lounger  with 
an  unfriendly  eye.  The  latter  winced  a  bit  but  did 
his  best  to  put  up  a  brave  show  of  resentment. 

"She  never  seen  me  till  ten  minutes  ago,  Maher, 
an'  I  ain't  done  or  said  nawthin'  wrong  to  her. 
Leave  it  to  th'  girl  herself  if  I  ain't  been  dead 
square.  Ain't  I,  ma'am?" 

"He's  been  very  kind,  policeman,"  answered 
Justine,  eagerly. 

"Sure,  sure,  Maher,  dat's  right,"  said  the 
lounger,  triumphantly. 

"Did  he's  thry  to  touch  ye,  ma'am?"  demanded 
the  officer,  still  unsatisfied. 


TWO   WOMEN  AND  A   BABE  305 

"No,  sir;  he  did  not  do  anything  so  rude.  He 
was  very  kind,  and  I  thank  him,"  responded  she, 
taking  the  word  "touch"  literally. 

"What  d'l  tell  you?"  said  the  suspect  in  hurt 
tones. 

"Kape  yer  gab  out,  Biggs,"  said  the  officer.  "I 
mean,  ma'am,  did  he  ask  yez  fer  money?" 

"Oh,  no,  sir,"  said  Justine  confusedly. 

"Never  asked  her  fer  a  cent,  on  the  dead " 

"That'll  do  ye,  Biggs.  Clear  out,  onnyhow," 
said  the  policeman,  unpityingly. 

"Aw,  dat's  not  right " 

"G'wan  now,  will  ye?"  exclaimed  Officer  Ma- 
her,  roughly  shoving  Mr.  Biggs  toward  the  door. 

"Oh,"  cried  Justine,  indignantly.  "Let  him 
alone !"  Her  eyes  were  flashing  angrily. 

"It's  all  right,  ma'am,"  explained  the  clerk, 
calmly. 

"But  he's  done  nothing  wrong." 

"You  can't  take  chances  with  these  bums. 
They're  a  bad  lot.  He's  a  tough  customer,  Biggs 
is.  Don't  have  anything  to  do  with  strangers  on 
the  street.  It's  not  safe."  By  this  time  the  red- 
faced  guardian  of  the  peace  was  with  them  again, 
and  Justine  reluctantly  explained  her  dilemma  to 
him. 


"He  worked  here  for  a  Jong  time  as  a  newspaper 
;artist,"  she  said,  in  conclusion. 

"I've  seen  his  pictures  many  a  time,"  said  the 
clerk  with  new  interest.  "Is  he  your  husband  ?*' 

"Yes,  sir." 

"I  guess  he's  not  on  the  paper  now.  I  haven't 
seen  his  pictures  for  some  time." 

"He's  been  off  the  paper  for  nearly  a  year." 

"Come  wid  me  to  hidquarters,  ma'am,  an'  the 
chief'll  sind  some  wan  out  to  loca — ate  him  before 
uight,"  said  the  officer.  "Sthate  yer  case  to  the 
*?oss.  It  won't  be  no  thrick  to  find  him." 

"I  hate  to  have  the  police  look  for  him,"  said  she 
imploringly. 

"Will,  thin,  phat'd  yez  call  me  in  fer?"  de- 
manded the  officer,  harshly. 

"I — I  didn't  call  you  in,  sir,"  said  she,  looking 
helplessly  at  the  clerk. 

"I  called  you  in,  officer,"  said  the  clerk.  "She 
didn't  know  what  to  do.*' 

"Will,  it's  up  to  you,  ma'am.  We'll  find  him  if 
yez  say  so." 

"Do  you  know  any  one  else  in  Chicago?"  asked 
the  clerk.  "Maybe  there's  some  one  you  could  go 
to  while  they're  trying  to  find  your  husband." 

"I  don't  know  any  one  here,"  she  said,  despair- 
ingly. 


TWO    WOMEN   AND    A    B  ABE  307 

"Don't  you  want  to  leave  your  grip  here  ?  We'll 
take  care  of  it  till  you  come  after  it." 

"That'll  be  all  right,  ma'am.  It'll  be  safe  here, 
an'  yez  don't  want  to  be  luggin'  it  around  town  wid 
that  kid  on  yer  hands.  L'ave  it  here,"  said  Officer 
Maher,  and  he  picked  it  up  and  carried  it  behind 
the  prescription  counter  before  she  could  remon- 
strate. The  clerk  handed  her  a  card  containing  the 
name  and  location  of  the  store. 

"Oh,  I  do  know  some  one  here,"  she  cried  sud- 
denly, her  face  brightening.  "Miss  Celeste  Wood. 
Do  you  think  I  could  find  her?" 

To  her  dismay,  the  name  was  not  in  the  direc- 
tory. 

"Does  she  live  with  her  parents?"  asked  the 
clerk. 

"I — I  think  so,"  replied  Justine,  helplessly. 

"Do  you  know  her  father's  name?" 

"No,  sir.  She  has  a  brother  named  Randall. 
Would  his  name  be  in  the  book?" 

Young  Wood's  name  and  address  were  readily 
found  by  the  clerk,  and  Officer  Maher  advised  her 
to  take  a  cab  to  the  place  at  once.  These  men  un- 
ceremoniously took  matters  in  their  own  hands, 
and,  almost  before  she  knew  it,  a  cab  was  taking 
her  northward,  bound  for  the  home  of  the  girl  who 


3o8  THE   SHERRODS 

had  so  often  sent  her  love,  through  Jud,  to  the 
other  girl  of  Proctor's  Falls. 

The  ride  gave  her  ample  time  to  reflect  and  she 
had  not  gone  far  before  her  thoughts  were  running 
once  more  in  a  straight  channel.  Her  pride  grew 
as  the  situation  became  plainer,  displacing  the  first 
dread  and  confusion.  How  could  she  go  to  a  stran- 
ger and  inflict  her  with  her  troubles?  What  right 
had  she  to  ask  her  assistance  or  even  her  interest  in 
this  hour  of  need?  Besides  all  this,  the  mere  con- 
fession that  she  could  not  find  her  husband  would 
be  humiliating  to  her  and  explanations  would  be 
sure  to  put  Jud  in  an  unpleasant  light.  It  would 
mean  that  she  must  tell  Miss  Wood  of  his  failure  in 
everything,  a  condition  which  the  young  woman 
might  politely  deplore,  but  that  was  all.  Her  own 
poor  garments  now  seemed  the  shabby  reflection  of 
Jud's  poverty,  his  degradation,  his  fall  from  the 
high  pedestal  that  had  been  his  by  promise.  She 
could  not  look  down  into  the  bright,  laughing  eyes 
of  her  boy  and  go  on  to  the  shameful  exposition  of 
his  father's  misfortune.  The  red  of  pride  mounted 
to  her  brown  cheeks  and  the  new  fire  in  her  eyes 
burned  bright  with  the  resolution  to  save  him  and 
herself  from  the  humiliation  of  an  appeal  to  Miss 
Wood. 

Past  rows  of  magnificent  homes  she  was  driven, 


TWO    WOMEN   AND    A    BABE  309 

but  they  interested  her  not  at  all.  Beneath  her 
pride,  however,  there  battled  the  fast-diminishing 
power  of  reason.  Try  as  she  would,  she  could  not 
drive  out  the  stubborn  spark  which  told  her  that  she 
must  call  upon  some  one  in  her  helplessness — but 
that  the  "some  one"  should  be  a  woman  was  dis- 
tressing. As  she  was  struggling  with  pride  and 
reason,  the  cab  turned  in  and  drew  up  at  the  curb 
in  front  of  a  handsome  house.  Her  heart  gave  a 
great  bound  of  dismay. 

"This  is  No. ,  ma'am,"  said  the  driver,  as 

he  threw  open  the  door. 

"I — I  don't  believe  I'll  go  in,"  she  stammered, 
trembling  in  every  nerve. 

"Where  shall  I  take  you?"  he  asked  wearily. 
Little  he  cared  for  the  emotions  of  his  fares. 

"Are  you  sure  this  is  the  place?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  ma'am.    Do  you  want  to  get  out?" 

Fresh  courage  inspired  her,  brought  about  by  the 
sharp  realization  that  it  was  the  only  way  to  find 
help,  humiliating  though  the  method  might  be. 
There  was  no  other  way,  and  his  question :  "Where 
shall  I  take  you  ?"  reminded  her  forcibly  that  she 
had  no  place  to  go. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  decisively,  and  with  the  haste 
of  one  who  is  afraid  that  hesitation  will  bring  weak- 
ness, she  stepped  to  the  carriage-block. 


"Shall  I  wait,  ma'am?" 

"I  don't  know  how  long  I'll  be  here,"  she  said, 
her  ignorance  confronted  by  another  puzzle.  The 
driver  saw  in  his  mind  sufficient  cause  for  her  un- 
certainty, and  sagely  concluded  that  she  was  a  poor 
mother  who  expected  to  find  a  home  for  her  babe 
with  the  wealthy  people  who  lived  at  No. . 

"I'll  drive  into  the  park  and  be  back  in  half  an 
hour,  ma'am,  if  you  think  you'll  be  there  that  long," 
he  said,  and  away  he  rolled.  She  mounted  the  steps 
quickly  and,  after  a  long  and  embarrassing  search, 
found  the  electric  button  and  rang  the  door  bell.  A 
trim  maid  responded.  Justine  had  fondly  hoped 
that  Miss  Wood  herself  would  come  to  the  door, 
and  her  heart  sank  with  disappointment. 

"Is  Miss  Wood  at  home?"  she  managed  to  ask. 

"She  does  not  live  here,"  replied  the  maid,  sur- 
veying the  caller  with  a  superior  and  supercilious 
air. 

"I  thought  her  brother "  began  Justine, 

faintly.  She  felt  as  if  she  were  about  to  fall. 

"Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wood  live  here,  and  they  have 

a  married  daughter  living  over  in  S Place.  I 

have  only  been  here  since  Monday,  ma'am,  and  I 
can't  tell  you  her  address." 

"It  is  Miss  Celeste  Wood  I  want  to  see,"  said 
poor  Justine,  her  lip  trembling. 


TWO    WOMEN   AND   A    BABE^il 

"That's  the  name — Celeste.  She  was  here  yes- 
terday, and  I  heard  Mrs.  Wood  speak  the  name. 
Won't  Mrs.  Wood  do  as  well?"  There  was  kind- 
ness in  the  voice  now ;  Justine's  eyes  had  made  their 
usual  conquest. 

"I'd — I'd  rather  see  Miss  Celeste,"  she  said,  tim- 
idly. "Can't  you  tell  me  where  she  lives?" 

"I'll  ask  Mrs.  Wood.  The  butler'd  know,  but 
he  is  sick.  Will  you  wait  inside  the  door?  What  a 
pretty  baby." 

She  was  gone  but  a  few  minutes,  returning  before 
Justine's  dazed  eyes  had  half  accustomed  them^ 
selves  to  the  attractive  place. 

"She  lives  at  No.  1733  S Place.     You  go 

to  the  next  corner  and  turn  west.    The  house  is  in- 
the  second  block." 

The  day  was  cold  and  her  bare  hands  were  numb.- 
The  wind  from  the  lake  cut  through  her  thin  gar-- 
ments  so  relentlessly  that  she  longed  for  the  protec-- 
tion  of  the  carriage,  which  was  not  to  return  for 
half  an  hour — and  then  to  the  wrong  place.  What 
if  Celeste  were  not  at  home  ?  She  could  not  ask  to 
be  permitted  to  sit  in  her  house  until  her  return; 
that  would  be  too  much  of  an  imposition.  She 
could  only  return  to  the  street  and  wait  for  half  an 
hour  in  the  freezing  winds  for  the  cab,  which 
seemed  like  a  home  to  her  now. 


312  THE   SHERRODS 

A  hurrying  figure  in  furs  and  brown  approached 
from  the  direction  in  which  she  was  going.  The 
two  drew  nearer  and  nearer,  the  one  walking  rap- 
idly against  the  wind,  the  other  driven  along  more 
swiftly  than  was  her  wont  by  the  heavy  gale  at  her 
back.  Justine  was  the  first  to  recognize  the  other. 
Her  heart  gave  a  great  bound  of  joy,  for  there 
could  be  no  mistaking  the  face  of  the  woman  who 
faced  the  wind.  The  country  girl  jubilantly  ut- 
tered in  her  soul  a  prayer  of  gratitude  to  the  Provi- 
dence that  had  brought  her  face  to  face  with  the  one 
she  sought.  She  half  stopped  as  the  other  drew 
near.  Celeste's  eyes  met  hers.  Evidently  she  was 
surprised  to  observe  a  desire  to  speak  with  her  on 
the  part  of  a  stranger.  Justine's  eyes  were  wide 
with  relief  and  her  lips  were  parted  as  if  words  were 
just  inside.  Celeste's  eyes  narrowed  for  one  brief 
Instant  of  indecision,  and  then  she  knew.  There 
was  but  one  face  like  Justine  Van's,  and  it  had  been 
in  her  mind  for  days  and  days.  She  had  just  come 
from  it,  in  fact,  and  her  heart  was  still  aching  with 
the  pain  of  seeing  it  on  Jud's  easel  not  an  hour  be- 
fore. But  what  could  the  girl  be  doing  in  Chicago  ? 
was  the  thought  that  flashed  into  her  mind.  Even 
as  she  opened  her  lips  to  greet  her,  her  hands  ex- 
tended, it  was  known  to  her  that  Justine  could  be 
going  only  to  the  home  of  Jud  Sherrod.  Justine's 


TWO    WOMEN   AND   A    BABE  313 

joy  was  too  great  for  words  and  Celeste's  heart 
went  out  to  her  irresistibly.  Despite  the  wanness 
of  the  face  and  the  dark  circles  under  the  eyes,  Jus- 
tine's were  still  the  vivid,  matchless  features  that 
Celeste  had  envied  in  that  other  day.  Though  she 
was  sorely  troubled  by  the  inexplicable  presence  of 
the  one  woman  whom  she  had  been  thinking  of  for 
days,  Celeste  could  but  greet  her  warmly. 

"This  is  the  greatest  surprise  in  the  world,"  cried 
Celeste.  "Who  would  have  dreamed  of  seeing 
you  here?" 

"I  have  just  come  from  your  old  home.  They 
told  me  you  lived  on  this  street,"  said  Justine,  her 
voice  hoarse  with  emotion. 

"And  you  were  going  to  my  home,"  cried  Ce- 
leste, just  as  if  intuition  had  not  told  her  so  be- 
fore. "I  was  on  my  way  to  mother's.  Isn't  it 
lucky  we  met?  I  will  go  back  with  you  at  once. 
You  must  be  very  cold.  And — a  baby?  Oh,  the 
dear  little  one !  How  cold  it  must  be." 

"I  have  him  well  wrapped  up,"  said  Justine. 
Celeste  mentally  noted  that  the  child  was  protected 
at  the  sacrifice  of  the  mother's  comfort,  for  Justine 
looked  half  frozen.  • 

"Is  he — is  he  your  boy?"  asked  Celeste,  and  a 
wave  of  happiness  surged  over  her  when  the  answer 


3H  THE   SHERRODS 

came.  Did  it  not  prove  that  she  was  married  and 
forever  out  of  Jud's  life? 

"I  am  sure  he  must  be  a  handsome  little  fellow," 
said  she,  as  they  turned  from  the  sidewalk  to  the 
steps  leading  to  the  door  of  her  home. 

"He  looks  like  his  father — and  not  a  bit  like 
me,"  said  Justine,  modestly. 

"Have  you  named  him?" 

"He  is  named  after  his  father,  of  course." 

"A  token  of  real  love." 

"Of  love,  yes — he  could  have  had  no  other  name. 
I  am  so  happy  that  he  is  a  boy."  The  door  swung 
open  and  they  were  in  the  warm  hallway. 

"You  must  let  me  see  him.  Bring  him  to  the 
grate.  But,  first,  take  off  your  hat  and  coat.  Mary 
will  relieve  you  of  them.  Now,  let  me  see  him." 

Dudley,  the  second,  was  awake,  wide-eyed  and 
frightened,  when  he  looked  up  into  the  two  faces 
above  him. 

"Does  he  not  look  like  his  father?"  asked  Jus- 
tine, happily. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

THE  END  OF  IT  ALL. 

CELESTE  started.  Justine's  innocent  query 
rudely  tore  down  the  curtain  that  had 
hung  between  her  understanding  and  Jud's 
strange  behavior,  and  it  seemed  to  her,  in  that  one 
brief,  horrible  moment,  that  she  saw  all  that  was 
black  and  ugly  in  life. 

She  could  take  her  eyes  from  the  mother's  gentle 
face  only  to  let  them  rest  upon  the  features  of  the 
baby.  Justine's  question — "Does  he  not  look  like 
his  father?" — could  have  but  one  answer.  Dudley 
Sherrod's  likeness  was  stamped  on  the  face  of  the 
boy,  unmistakable,  accusing.  In  her  terror,  the 
face  of  the  little  one  seemed  to  age  suddenly  until 
there  loomed  up  before  her  the  features  of  Jud,  the 
man. 

Powerless  to  answer,  she  turned  abruptly  and 
staggered  to  a  window,  leaning  heavily  against  the 
casing,  her  heart  like  lead,  her  face  as  white  as 
death.  She  knew  now  the  cause  of  everything  that 
had  mystified  and  troubled  her  in  Jud's  conduct. 
Now  she  knew  why  the  picture  of  Justine  was  be- 
fore him,  now  she  knew  why  the  mention  of  her 


3i6  THE   SHERRODS 

name  threw  him  into  confusion.  The  whole 
wretched  truth  was  plain. 

"Oh,  Jud !  Oh,  Jud !"  she  cried  to  herself.  "Oh, 
this  poor  ruined  girl!  How  could  he  have  done 
such  a — oh,  God,  no,  no !  I  must  be  wrong.  The 
resemblance  is  not  real — it  is  my  fancy.  But — but, 
why  does  she  ask  me  if  he  looks  like  his  father? 
What  other  father  can  there  be — what  other  man 
is  known  to  both  of  us  ?  But  how  young  the  boy  is ; 
Jud  has  not  seen  her  in  years.  He  cannot  be  the 
father.  Why  am  I  afraid?  Why  have  I  doubted 
him?"  The  voice  of  the  other  woman  came  to  her 
from  the  fireplace,  indistinct,  jumbled  and  as  if 
through  the  swirl  of  a  storm. 

"Pardon  me,  but  I  do  not  know  what  your  name 
is  now,"  was  the  apologetic  remark  from  the  other 
side  of  the  room,  and  Celeste  turned  to  her. 

"My  name  is — is  Sherrod,  Miss  Van,"  she  said, 
slowly.  Justine  looked  up  in  surprise  and  bewil- 
derment. A  shadow  of  unbelief  crossed  her  face. 

"Sherrod?"  she  asked,  curiously.  "Why,  how 
strange  that  we  should  have  the  same  name." 

"The  same  names  Miss  Van?" 

"My  name  has  not  been  Van  for  a  long,  long 
time.  We  were  married  before  you  met  us  in  Proc- 
tor's Falls,  I'm — why,  what  is  the  matter?" 

"It  is  not  true — it  is  not  true,"  half  shrieked 


"  IT    IS    NOT    TRUE,"     HALF    SHRIEKED    CELESTE. 


THE   END    OF   IT   ALL        317 

Celeste.  Justine  shrank  back  as  if  confronted  by  a 
mad  woman,  instinctively  shielding  her  boy.  "Do 
you  mean  to  tell  me  you  were  married  to  Jud  Sher- 
rod?"  she  continued,  scornfully. 

"Of  course  I  was — don't  look  at  me  like  that! 
.What  in  the  name  of  heaven  is  the  matter,  Mrs. — 

Mrs. "  A  sickening  thought  struggled  into 

Justine's  mind.  "Your  name  is — is  Sherrod,  too," 
she  said,  dully.  "Has — has  Jud  anything  to  do 
with  it?" 

"He  is  not  your  husband,"  cried  Celeste,  pity- 
ingly. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  gasped  Justine,  limp  and 
white.  "Jud  and  I  married  three  years  ago " 

"Oh!"  moaned  Celeste.  Justine's  extended  arm 
caught  her  as  she  dropped  forward.  The  wild  blue 
eyes  looked  piteously  into  the  frightened  brown 
ones,  and  the  gray  lips  repeated  hoarsely:  "Are 
you  sure?  Are  you  sure?" 

"What  shall  I  do?"  moaned  Justine.  "I  am  his 
wife,  I  know  I  am.  Nobody  can  deny  it.  Why, 
why,  I  have  the  certificate "  she  went  on  eager- 
ly. Celeste  struggled  to  her  feet. 

"Then  what  in  the  name  of  heaven  has  he  made 
of  me?"  she  cried,  hoarsely. 

"I  don't  understand,"  murmured  Justine  dully. 
"Do  you — do  you  love  him?" 


318  THE   SHERRODS 

"Love  him?  Love  him?  Why,  woman,  he  is 
my  husband !" 

The  world  went  black  before  Justine's  eyes.  She 
fell  back  in  the  deep  chair;  her  big  eyes  closed,  her 
hands  relaxed  their  clasp  on  the  boy  and  he  slid  to 
the  protecting  arm  of  the  chair;  her  breath  clogged 
her  throat.  As  consciousness  fled,  she  saw  Celeste 
sink  to  the  floor  at  her  feet. 

A  man  drew  aside  the  curtains  a  few  minutes 
afterwards  and  planted  a  heavy  foot  inside  the 
room.  His  sombre  eyes  were  on  the  floor  and  it 
was  not  until  he  was  well  inside  the  room  that  his 
gaze  fell  upon  the  still  group  at  the  fireplace.  He 
paused,  his  tired  eyes  for  the  moment  resting  wear- 
ily on  the  scene.  Slowly  his  mind,  which  had  been 
far  away,  caught  up  the  picture  before  him.  His 
dull  sensibilities  became  active. 

Celeste  was  lying  on  the  floor.  She  had  fainted. 
He  stretched  forth  his  arms  to  lift  her  and  his  eyes 
fell  upon  the  upturned  face  of  the  woman  in  the 
chair.  Petrified,  he  stood  for  an  age,  it  seemed. 
Comprehension  slowly  forced  its  way  into  his  brain. 

"Justine !"  A  shriek  of  terror  burst  in  his 
throat ;  the  sound  did  not  reach  his  lips.  The  end 
had  come!  It  was  all  over!  They  knew — they 
knew!  They  knew  him  for  what  he  was.  He  had 
not  the  strength  to  flee ;  he  only  knew  that  he  was 


THE   END    OF   IT   ALL        319 

face  to  face  with  the  end.  He  must  stand  his 
ground,  as  well  now  as  any  time.  He  waited. 
There  would  be  cries,  sobs,  wails  and  bitterness. 

But  no  sounds  came  from  the  lips  of  the  two 
women.  The  baby  alone  stared  in  wonder  at  this 
strange  man.  The  faces  of  the  unconscious  girls 
were  deathlike,  Justine's  drawn  with  pain,  Ce- 
leste's white  and  weak.  Unconsciously  his  hand 
touched  Justine's  face,  then  her  breast.  She  did 
not  move,  but  her  heart  was  beating.  With  the 
same  mechanical  calmness  he  dropped  to  one  knee 
and  half  raised  Celeste's  head,  expecting  her  eyes  to 
open.  The  lids  lay  still  and  dark  and  her  neck  was 
limp.  As  he  rose  to  his  feet  stiffly,  his  eyes  fell 
upon  the  face  of  the  boy  and  it  was  as  if  he  were  a 
child  again  and  looking  at  himself  in  the  old  mir- 
ror up  at  the  house  "on  the  pike." 

He  could  not  meet  the  smile  of  that  innocent 
spectator.  In  a  fever  of  haste  lest  either  woman 
should  revive  before  he  could  be  hidden  from  their 
wretched  eyes,  he  pressed  cold  lips  to  their  lips, 
covered  the  baby's  face  with  kisses  and  a  flood  of 
tears  that  suddenly  burst  forth,  and  then  dashed 
blindly  from  the  room  and  up  the  broad  staircase, 
terrified  by  the  sound  of  his  own  footfalls,  in  dread 
of  a  piteous  call  from  below,  eager  to  escape  the 
eyes,  the  condemning  eyes  that  once  had  loved  him. 


320  THE   SHERRODS 

Celeste  was  the  first  to  open  her  eyes.  For  many 
minutes  she  lay  where  she  had  fallen,  striving  to 
remember  how  she  came  to  be  there.  Memory 
gradually  pushed  aside  the  kindly  numbness — and 
she  saw  clearly.  Dragging  herself  to  the  mantel 
post,  she  tried  to  regain  her  feet.  The  effort  was 
vain;  her  strength  had  not  returned.  Leaning 
against  the  mosaic  background,  she  turned  her  eyes 
upon  the  motionless  figure  in  the  chair.  She  never 
knew  what  her  thoughts  were  as  she  sat  there  and 
gazed  upon  the  face  of  the  other  woman,  Justine 
Yan — Justine  Van,  the  girl  of  Proctor's  Falls. 

At  last  a  long  sigh  came  from  Justine's  lips,  there 
was  a  deep  shudder  and  then  the  fluttering  lips 
parted,  two  wide,  dazed  eyes  of  brown  staring  into 
space.  Minutes  passed  before  the  gaze  of  the  two 
women  met.  There  were  no  words,  nothing  but 
the  fixed  stare  of  horror.  Moved  by  a  desperate 
impulse,  Celeste  struggled  to  her  feet,  her  glazed 
eyes  bent  upon  the  face  of  the  baby.  Steadying 
herself  for  an  instant  against  the  mantel,  she 
lurched  forward,  hatred  in  her  heart,  her  hands  out- 
stretched. The  fingers  locked  themselves  in  the 
folds  of  the  child's  dress  and  he  was  raised  above 
the  head  of  the  frenzied  woman. 


THE   END    OF   IT   ALL        321 

Justine's  weak  hand  went  up  appealingly;  she 
had  not  strength  to  rise  and  snatch  the  child  from 
the  other's  clutches. 

"Then  kill  me,  too,"  she  whispered,  closing  her 
eyes. 

A  crowing  laugh  came  from  the  child.  The 
laugh  of  an  infant  who  is  tossed  on  high  and  revels 
in  the  fun.  A  moment  later  he  was  lying  in  his 
mother's  lap  and  his  enemy  was  sobbing  as  she  laid 
her  hand  in  the  dark  hair  of  the  other  woman. 

A  distant  scream  came  from  somewhere  in  the 
house,  but  the  two  women  did  not  hear  it.  A  maid 
came  scurrying  downstairs,  white  and  excited.  She 
dashed  unceremoniously  into  the  room,  panting  out 
the  single  exclamation : 

"Hurry!" 

Celeste  slowly  turned  toward  her. 

"What  is  it,  Mary?"  she  asked,  mechanically, 
almost  unconsciously. 

"Mr.  Sherrod,  ma'am — you  must  come  quick. 
In  the  studio,"  gasped  the  maid. 

"Is  Jud  here?"  asked  Justine,  raising  herself  in 
the  chair.  A  new  light  struggled  into  her  eyes. 
Celeste,  cold  with  the  certainty  of  some  terrible 
news,  straightened  to  receive  the  blow. 

"Is  it — bad,  Mary?"  she  asked. 


322  THE   SHERRODS 

"Oh,  ma'am,  I — I  can't  tell  you,"  almost  whis- 
pered the  girl.  "It's  awful !  I'll  see  him  to  my  dy- 
ing day." 

"He — he  is  dead?"  The  question  came  from 
frozen  lips. 

The  maid  burst  into  tears. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

HEARTS. 

HERROD'S  body  lay  stretched  across  the 
rug  in  front  of  the  grate  in  his  studio.  His- 
coat  and  vest  had  been  hastily  thrown  aside 
and  his  white  shirt,  covering  the  deep  chest,  was 
saturated  with  blood.  The  carved  hilt  of  a  Malay 
dagger  stood  defiantly  above  the  cleft  heart.  The 
steel  was  deep  in  his  body. 

He  had  dealt  one  blow,  but  he  had  sent  the  blade 
of  the  kris  straight  home ;  so  true  was  its  course  that 
death  must  have  been  instantaneous.  He  lay  flat 
on  his  broad  back,  his  neck  twisted  as  if  checked  in 
the  supreme  moment  of  agony;  death  had  left  its 
stamp  of  pain  on  his  ghastly  face. 

On  the  floor  near  the  body  a  piece  of  white  paper 
was  found,  across  which  was  scrawled : 

"Forgive  me." 

The  hand  that  penciled  these  words  was  the  same 
that  drove  home  the  blade,  but  it  had  trembled  only 
in  the  writing,  not  in  the  blow.  The  hasty  scrawl 
revealed  his  eagerness  to  have  over  with  life  while 
there  was  yet  a  chance  to  escape  facing  the  ruined 
women  below.  The  last  plea  of  the  suicide  was 


324  THE   SHERRODS 

not  directed  to  either  of  the  loved  ones;  it  was  left 
for  each  to  take  it  to  her  heart  and  in  secrecy  hold 
It  as  hers  alone — cherishing  it,  if  she  could. 

His  had  been  a  crime  that  the  law  could  not  suf- 
ficiently punish.  He  had  inflicted  the  penalty  him- 
self and  he  had  asked  forgiveness  of  those  he  had 
wronged  in  his  weakness.  They  had  loved  him  to 
the  hour  of  his  death;  they  had  trusted  him. 
Neither  had  known  him  in  his  baseness  or  his  cow- 
ardice— they  knew  him  only  as  loving,  devoted  and 
true.  Death  came  just  as  the  joys  of  being  his 
were  shattered;  the  pains  he  had  given  them  in  life 
were  known  only  after  he  had  gone  from  them. 
They  were  asked  to  forgive  a  dead  man  who  had 
been  everything  to  them  in  life,  and  whom  they  had 
loved  until  his  last  breath  was  drawn;  he  did  not 
wait  to  receive  their  reproaches ;  he  had  gone  away 
as  they  had  known  him  and  they  had  not  looked 
upon  the  face  of  guilt. 

*  *  *  * 

Celeste  was  the  calmer  of  the  two  and  yet  she 
-  was  the  more  deeply  wronged.  After  the  first  grief 
she  arose,  bleeding  and  broken  from  the  wreck  of 
every  joy,  and  she  was  strong.  Justine,  stunned  by 
grief  and  horror,  lay  for  hours  in  the  bed  to  which 
she  had  been  carried  by  the  maids  after  the  terrible 
scene  in  the  studio.  With  the  slow  return  of  com- 


HEARTS  325. 

posure,  Celeste  saw  dimly  the  situation  as  it  ex- 
isted for  her.  She  was  not  a  widow.  The  widow 
was  the  other  woman  who  had  crouched  on  the  op- 
posite side  of  the  corpse,  pleading  with  him  to  come 
back  to  her  and  the  boy.  While  she  could  not  as 
yet  grasp  the  full  reality  of  her  position,  she  felt 
that  Justine's  claim  was  best. 

It  was  she  who  had  Justine  taken  to  a  room  by 
the  maids.  There  was  no  rage  in  her  heart;  she 
took  that  other  one  into  her  grief  and  shared  it  with 
her.  There  was  no  other  way;  they  had  suffered 
together.  There  still  lingered  a  faint  hope — cruel 
though  it  was — that  she  might  be  the  real  wife,  and 
Justine  the  false  one.  Hours  after  the  calamity, 
far  in  the  night,  while  her  mother  bathed  her  head 
and  sought  to  soothe  her,  Celeste  planned  and 
planned. 

She  knew  that  if  Justine's  claim  were  true,  Jud 
had  deliberately  made  a  wanton  of  her,  even  though 
he  loved  her.  The  world  would  soon  know  that 
she  was  not  a  wife,  and  the  newspapers  would  be 
nauseous  with  the  sensation.  She  was  confident, 
however,  that  she  was  the  only  one  in  the  house  who 
knew  Justine's  story,  and  as  she  lay  waiting  for  the 
dawn  there  grew  in  her  mind  a  steady  purpose. 
The  world  must  never  know ! 

Justine,  pale  and  dead-eyed,  stood  looking  from: 


326  THE   SHERRODS 

the  window  of  the  bed-chamber  when  the  knock 
came  at  her  door  the  next  morning.  She  did  not 
respond,  she  did  not  even  turn  her  head,  for  her 
thoughts  were  of  the  night  before,  and  the  life  be- 
fore that.  Celeste  softly  opened  the  door  and  came 
to  her  side. 

"Justine,"  she  said  gently,  almost  inaudibly. 
Dark,  heavy,  despairing  eyes  were  turned  upon  her 
and  she  feared  for  the  success  of  her  plan. 

"Am  I  to  go  to  him  now  ?"  came  the  lifeless  voice 
of  the  other. 

"Justine,"  said  Celeste,  taking  a  cold  hand  in  her 
own,  "we  must  understand  each  other,  we  must 
know  the  truth.  I  don't  think  anything  that  can 
happen  now  will  hurt  us;  we  are  dead  to  all  pain. 
We  must  talk  about — about  ourselves." 

"I  don't  understand  what  it  all  means,"  moaned 
Justine.    "Why  can't  I  go  to  Jud?    He  is  mine- 
he  is  mine,  and — and " 

"But,  Justine,  dear,  it  is  of  this  that  we  must  talk. 
I — I  thought  he  was  mine.  Oh  God,  don't  you 
see  ?  I  have  lived  as  his  wife  for  months  and — and 
I  never  knew  until  you  came  that  I — that  I — oh, 
don't  you  understand?" 

Justine's  unwillingness  to  believe  evil  of  Jud,  de- 
spite all  that  had  happened  to  prove  the  existence  of 
a  double  life,  was  a  barrier  hard  to  break  down,  and 


HEARTS  327 

it  was  not  without  long  entreaties  and  explanations 
that  Celeste  made  her  see  that  her  claim  had  some 
justification.  At  last  these  two  women  brought 
themselves  down  to  the  point  from  which  the  situa- 
tion could  be  seen  plainly  in  all  its  unhappy  color- 
ings. Together  in  the  darkness  that  he  had  cast 
about  them  they  groped  their  way  toward  the  light 
of  understanding;  as  they  went,  the  heart  of  each 
was  bared  to  the  other,  and  both  saw  and  sought  to 
ease  the  pain  the  rents  disclosed. 

There  was  no  denying  Justine's  right  to  call  Jud 
husband.  Celeste  saw  her  every  hope  slipping  away 
as  she  listened  to  the  story  of  the  courtship  and 
marriage  in  the  little  country  lane.  She  knew  now 
that  she  had  never  been  a  wife,  and  she  knew  that 
she  had  to  live  all  the  rest  of  her  life  beneath  an 
ugly  shadow.  Whatever  were  her  thoughts  of  the 
man  who  had  so  basely  wronged  her,  she  kept  them 
to  herself.  Not  one  word  of  reproach  did  she  ut- 
ter in  the  presence  of  the  wife  and  mother.  The 
consequences  of  his  crime  were  hers  to  bear,  and  her 
only  object  in  life  now  was  to  prevent  others  from 
sharing  them  with  her,  to  prevent  the  world  from 
knowing  of  their  existence.  If  she  loathed  the 
memory  of  the  man  who  had  despoiled  her  honor, 
she  held  that  loathing  secret.  To  the  world,  he  was 


328  THE   SHERRODS 

her  husband,  and  the  world  should  see  her  mourn 
for  him. 

Her  proposition  to  Justine  was  at  first  indig- 
nantly rejected,  but  so  skillfully  did  she  paint  the 
picture  of  her  position  in  life  as  Jud  had  left  it  for 
her,  that  the  tender,  honest  girl  from  the  country 
fell  completely  under  the  influence  of  her  pleading. 
Justine  was  made  to  see  Jud's  fault  in  all  its  black- 
ness, and  was  urged  to  share  in  the  effort  to  protect 
his  memory.  No  one  was  to  know  of  the  double 
life  he  had  led;  no  one  was  to  know  of  his  crime; 
no  one  was  to  curse  his  memory ;  two  women  alone 
were  to — forget,  if  they  could. 

Between  them  it  was  agreed  that  in  Chicago  Jus- 
tine was  to  appear  as  a  cousin  of  the  dead  man,  and 
the  funeral  obsequies  were  to  be  conducted  with  the 
real  wife  in  the  background,  the  other  as  the  deep- 
est mourner.  The  body  was  to  be  taken  afterwards 
to  Clay  township  for  burial,  and  there  Justine  was 
to  claim  her  dead,  with  Celeste  posing  as  the  good 
friend  in  the  hour  of  direst  trouble.  That  was  the 
general  plan,  the  minor  but  intricate  details  being 
intrusted  to  Celeste. 

"Here  he  was  my  husband,  and  the  world  may 
never  be  the  wiser,"  said  she,  taking  the  other  to 
her  grateful  heart.  "Down  there  he  is  yours,  and 
no  one  there  must  know  how  he  has  served  you. 


HEARTS  329 

You  can  save  me,  Justine,  and  I  can  shield  him 
from  the  curses  of  your  people.  He  will  lie  in  the 
grave  you  dig  for  him  away  down  there,  and  your 
friends  may  always  look  upon  his  headstone  and 
say :  'He  was  a  good  man.  We  all  loved  him.'  It 
is  fair,  Justine,  and  I  will  love  you  to  my  dying  day 
for  doing  all  this  for  me." 

"I  love  you,"  said  Justine,  and  they  went  forth 
to  play  their  unhappy  parts. 

It  was  Celeste,  keen  and  bold  in  her  desperation, 
who  wrote  the  letter  to  'Gene  Crawley,  signing  a 
fictitious  name,  Justine  looking  over  her  shoulder 
with  streaming  eyes.  It  briefly  told  of  a  sudden 
death  and  ended  with  the  statement  that  a  telegram 
would  follow  announcing  the  time  of  leaving  Chi- 
cago with  the  body.  The  newspapers  in  the  city 
told  the  story  of  the  suicide,  giving  the  cause  as  ill- 
health,  and  pictured  the  grief  of  the  young  widow. 
Celeste  saw  the  reporters  herself.  Purposely,  de- 
liberately she  misinformed  them  in  many  of  the  de- 
tails regarding  his  birthplace  and  his  earlier  life. 
This  act  of  shrewdness  on  her  part  was  calculated 
to  mislead  the  people  of  Clay  township,  and  it  suc- 
ceeded. No  one  could  connect  the  identity  of  the 
suicide  with  that  of  the  youth  who  had  gone  out 
from  that  Indiana  community  long  ago. 

How  the  two  women  lived  through  the  funeral 


330  THE  SHERRODS 

service  in  S Place  was  past  all  understanding. 

The  real  wife  heard  the  sobs  of  the  other  and 
choked  with  the  grief  she  was  compelled  to  sup- 
press. The  other  wept,  but  who  knows  whether  the 
tears  were  tribute  of  love  for  the  man  over  whom 
the  clergyman  said  such  gentle,  hopeful  words?  A 
dead  man  and  two  women  knew  the  story  that 
would  have  shocked  the  world.  One  could  not 
speak,  the  others  would  not.  And  so  he  was  eulo- 
gized. 

That  night  the  two  women  and  their  dead  left 
Chicago  for  Glenville.  Their  only  companion  was 
Dudley  Sherrod,  the  second. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

CRAWLEY'S  LEGACY. 

THE  people  of  Clay  Township  were  kept  in 
the  dark  concerning  the  manner  in  which 
Jud  came  to  his  death.  The  letter  to 
'Gene  merely  announced  that  his  sudden  death  was 
due  to  a  hemorrhage,  and  another  letter  to  Parson 
Marks  from  Justine's  friend  in  the  city  bore  the 
same  news.  Naturally  Jud's  friends  believed  that 
the  hemorrhage  was  of  the  lungs,  which  inspired 
ninety  per  cent,  of  them  to  say  that  they  had  always 
regarded  him  as  frail.  Some  went  so  far  as  to 
recall  predictions  made  when  he  was  a  boy  to  the 
effect  that  he  "wouldn't  live  to  see  thirty  year." 

Crawley  and  Harve  Crose  drove  to  Glenville  in 
Harve's  wagon  to  meet  the  train,  prepared  to  haul 
the  casket  to  the  cemetery,  where  Mr.  Marks  was 
to  conduct  short  services.  There  was  no  hearse  in 
Glenville,  but  there  was  a  carpenter  who  buried 
people  as  a  "side  line."  Rich  people  in  the  neigh- 
borhood sent  to  an  adjoining  county  seat  for  em- 
balmers  and  undertakers;  Clay  township  buried  its 
dead  at  it  was  able  and  saw  fit.  Justine  would  not 
permit  Celeste  to  pay  the  expenses  of  the  funeral  at 


332  THE   SHERRODS 

Jud's  old  home  and  she  herself  could  not  afford  the 
luxury  of  a  hearse  and  mourners'  carriage.  The  ar- 
rangements were  in  the  hands  of  Mr.  Marks,  Craw- 
ley  and  Crose,  and  the  details  were  of  the  simplest 
character. 

The  aristocratic  "two-seated  rig"  of  David 
Strong  and  Martin  Grimes's  surrey  were  at  the  sta- 
tion to  act  as  conveyances  for  Justine  and  the  minis- 
ter and  a  select  few.  Dozens  of  buggies,  buck- 
boards  and  not  a  few  spring  wagons  fell  in  behind 
the  "mourners'  carriages"  when  the  cortege  left 
the  depot  platform,  headed  for  the  cemetery  four 
miles  away.  Justine,  her  face  hidden  in  a  dense  veil 
of  black,  occupied  the  back  seat  in  David  Strong's 
vehicle,  and  the  whole  country-side  longed  to  com- 
fort her.  By  her  side  sat  a  pale,  beautiful  woman 
in  a  simple  gown  of  black — the  city  friend  the  com- 
munity had  heard  so  much  about.  The  baby  found 
a  comfortable  resting  place  in  the  capacious  lap  of 
Mrs.  Strong,  who  sniffled  continuously  while  her 
husband  drove  solemnly  and  imposingly  through 
the  streets  of  the  village.  The  town  looked  on  with 
sombre  gaze  and  the  country  spoke  in  a  respectful 
whisper.  Sad  was  the  home-coming  of  the  Sher- 
rods. 

The  long  procession,  headed  by  the  wagon  con- 
taining the  casket,  wound  its  slow  way  out  into  the 


CRAWLEY'S   LEGACY          333 

country,  through  the  winter-clean  lane,  past  the 
house  in  which  Jud  and  Justine  were  married,  and 
up  to  the  gate  of  the  dilapidated,  weather-worn 
4 'bury ing-ground"  on  the  hill.  In  oppressive  si- 
lence, the  throng  crowded  over  and  about  the  weed- 
covered  graves  in  the  ill-kept  little  cemetery  to  wit- 
ness every  movement  in  connection  with  the  cere- 
mony. They  saw  the  casket  lifted  from  the  wagon 
bed  by  six  young  men  and  they  opened  a  pathway 
from  the  gate  to  the  grave  through  which  the  pall- 
bearers passed  with  heavy  tread;  they  saw  the  long 
black  box  in  which  Dudley  Sherrod  had  come  home 
lowered  into  the  clay-colored  gulf;  they  saw  Justine, 
moaning  as  she  stood  between  old  Mrs.  Crane  and 
the  stranger  from  the  city;  but  they  could  not  see 
the  heart  of  that  white-faced  stranger,  who  looked 
with  tear-dimmed  eyes  into  the  grave  at  her  feet. 

Justine's  grief  was  pitiful.  Not  a  man,  woman 
or  child  in  that  assemblage  but  shed  tears  of  genu- 
ine sympathy.  The  men  and  women  who  had  gath- 
ered at  the  pastor's  home  not  many  months  before 
to  condemn  her,  now  stood  among  the  graves  and 
wept  with  her.  Not  a  few  cast  curious  eyes  upon 
the  fair  stranger  and  went  away  to  say  afterwards 
that  she  was  the  kind  of  friend  to  have. 

The  choir  of  the  little  church  sang  several  hymns 
from  books  that  Jud  and  Justine  had  used  in  days 


334  THE   SHERRODS 

gone  by.  Heads  were  bared  in  the  biting  air,  and 
no  man  was  there  who  did  not  do  full  honor  to  Jud 
Sherrod,  the  goodliest  boy  the  township  had  ever 
produced.  The  grief  of  the  people  was  honest. 
Mr.  Marks,  inspired  by  the  opportunity,  delivered 
such  a  discourse  on  the  goodness,  the  nobility  of  the 
young  man,  that  the  community,  with  one  voice, 
proclaimed  it  to  be  a  masterpiece  of  oratory. 

"And  to  this  devoted  young  wife,  for  whom  he 
struggled  so  manfully,  so  loyally  up  to  the  very 
hour  of  his  taking  away,  God  gives  His  boundless 
pity  and  will  extend  His  divlnest  help.  Dudley 
Sherrod,  our  departed  brother,  was  the  soul  of 
honor.  He  loved  his  home  and  the  mistress  of  it 
second  only  to  his  Maker.  I  voice  what  is  known 
to  the  world  at  large  when  I  say  that  never  lived 
there  a  man  whose  heart  was  more  thoroughly  given 
over  to  the  keeping  of  woman.  And  she  loved 
and  revered  him,  and  we  see  her  inconsolable,  bereft 
of  all  earthly  joy.  We  pray  God  that  she  may  see 
the  brightness  beyond  this  cloud  that  He  has  in  His 
wisdom  thrown  about  her.  And  we  pray  for  the 
life,  the  soul  of  this  baby  boy  who  lies  fatherless  in 
this — er — this  cold  world.  He  will  never  know 
the  love  of  a  father.  We  all  glory  in  the  privilege 
of  having  known  this  true,  honest  Christian  man,  a 
man  whose  life  bore  not  a  single  blemish.  His  life 


CRAWLEY'S   LEGACY          335 

was  an  example  to  all  mankind.  Oh,  ye  who  listen 
to  my  words  in  this  sad  hour,  strive  to  emulate  his 
example.  Do  ye  as  he  has  done,  live  the  life  he  has 
lived.  How  many  of  us  are  there  who  might  have 
lived  as  he — er — did — if  we  but  had  the  courage  to 
follow  the  impulses  of  the  soul.  He  has  gone  to 
his  reward." 

***** 

Just  before  the  shades  of  night  fell  across  the 
grief-ridden  community,  Justine  escaped  the  kind 
ministrations  of  Mrs.  Crane,  Mrs.  Hardesty,  Mrs. 
Bolton  and  other  good  dames  who  had  followed 
her  to  the  cottage  after  the  chill  services  in  the 
cemetery  for  the  purpose  of  comforting  her.  They 
had  gone  to  the  cottage  with  red  eyes,  choking  whis- 
pers and  hands  eager  to  lift  her  up,  and  she  was 
trying  to  avoid  these  good  offices.  She  crept  into 
the  bleak  little  room  upstairs  to  which  Celeste  had 
long  since  fled  to  find  solitude  for  her  broken  heart. 

Celeste  was  stretched  upon  the  bed,  face  down- 
ward, and  her  slim  body  was  as  still  as  Jud's  had 
been.  The  feeling  of  dread  in  Justine's  heart  was 
not  dispelled  until  her  hands  touched  the  warm 
cheek,  and  her  ear  caught  the  sound  of  a  faint,  tear- 
choked  sigh. 

"It  is  I,  Celeste,"  she  said,  gently.  "Won't  you 
let  me  hold  you  in  my  arms?  See!  I  am  strong 


336  THE   SHERRODS 

again  and  I  must  take  some  one  to  my  heart.  It 
seems  so  empty,  so  dead,  so  cold.  You  don't  hate 
me  for  this  day,  do  you?" 

Celeste  turned  her  face  to  the  girl  above  and 
stretched  forth  her  hand. 

"I  love  you,  Justine,"  she  sobbed,  and  their  wet 
faces  were  pressed  close  together  on  the  same  pil- 
low. After  many  minutes  she  asked  abruptly: 
"What  are  you  going  to  do,  Justine?" 

"Do  ?"  asked  the  other,  blankly.  "I  don't  know. 
I  haven't  thought." 

"You  will  not  stay  here,  you  cannot  stay  here 
where — where ' ' 

"But  where  can  I  go?    What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  want  to  be  with  you  always — I  want  to  be 
near  his — your  boy,"  said  the  other.  "Oh,  Justine, 
I  must  have  some  one  to  love,  I  must  have  some  one 
to  love  me.  Don't  you  see,  can't  you  see  ?  I  want 
you  to  love  me  and  I  want  his  boy  to  love  me.  You 
— you  sannot  stay  here — you  shall  not  stay  here  and 
suffer  alone;  you  must  not  bear  it  all  alone.  We 
/took  the  blow  together,  dearest  Justine;  let  us  bear 
it  together,  let  us  live  through  it  together." 

And  so  it  was  that  the  women  Jud  Sherrod  had 
made  happy  and  unhappy  in  his  brief,  misguided 
life,  found  a  vacant  place  each  in  the  heart  of  the 
other  and  filled  that  place  with  the  love  that  could 


CRAWLEY'S   LEGACY          33? 

not  be  dishonored.  It  was  a  long  time  before  Jus- 
tine could  fully  comprehend  the  extent  of  the  other's 
proposition  and  it  was  much  longer  before  she  was 
won  over  by  almost  abject  pleading  on  the  part  of 
the  wretched,  lonely  girl  who  had  been  wife  in  name 
only. 

Celeste  convinced  Justine  that  she  was  entitled  to 
all  that  Jud  had  left  as  a  legacy;  she  deliberately 
classified  herself  as  a  part  of  his  estate,  an  article 
among  his  goods  and  chattels,  and  as  such  she  be- 
longed to  his  widow  and  heir.  The  home  in  S 

Place  was,  by  right  of  law,  Justine's,  argued  the 
pleader,  and  all  that  Jud  had  died  possessed  of  was 
in  that  house.  So  persistent  was  she  in  the  desire  to 
obtain  her  end  that  she  triumphed  over  Justine's  ob- 
jections. It  was  settled  that  they  were  to  live  to- 
gether, travel  together  so  long  as  both  found  the 
union  agreeable. 

Celeste's  plan  included  a  long  stay  in  Europe,  a 
complete  flight  from  all  that  had  been  laid  bare  and 
waste  in  the  world  they  had  known  with  him.  In 
two  weeks  they  were  to  sail  and  there  was  no  time 
set  for  their  return.  Justine's  most  difficult  task 
was  to  be  performed  in  the  interim.  It  was  to  be 
the  rewarding  of  Eugene  Crawley. 

She  had  seen  him  at  the  grave-side,  standing  du 
rectly  opposite  her  across  the  narrow  opening  in  the 


338  THE   SHERRODS 

ground.  The  pallor  of  his  face  was  so  marked  that 
even  she  had  observed  it.  He  had  not  raised  his 
eyes  to  look  at  her,  but  she  had  seen  his  chest  rise 
and  fall. 

The  third  day  after  the  funeral  she  faced  Craw- 
ley  in  the  barn-lot.  With  Celeste  she  was  to  leave 
that  evening  for  Chicago  and  the  time  had  come  for 
settlement.  She  stood  near  the  little  gate  that  led 
to  the  barn-lot  and  he  approached  slowly,  uncer- 
tain as  to  the  propriety  of  addressing  this  woman 
in  grief.  It  was  to  be  his  first  word  to  her  since  he 
said  good-by  on  the  day  that  took  her  to  Chicago 
with  his  money  in  her  purse,  the  price  of  his  horses. 
He  had  staked  his  all  to  give  her  the  means  to  find 
Sherrod  and  she  had  found  him. 

"  'Gene,  I  am  going  away,"  she  said,  extending 
her  hand  as  he  came  up. 

"Going  away?"  he  repeated,  blankly. 

"Yes.  Miss  Wood  has  asked  me  to  accompany 
her  to  Europe  and — and  I  am  going." 

He  was  silent  for  a  long  time,  his  dazed  eyes 
looking  past  her  as  if  sightless. 

"That's — that's  a  long  ways  to  go,  Justine,"  he 
said  at  last,  and  his  voice  was  husky.  The  broad 
hand  which  had  held  hers  for  an  instant,  shook  as 
he  laid  it  on  the  gate  post. 

"It  is  very  good  of  her,  'Gene,  and  I  love  her  so 


CRAWLEY'S   LEGACY          339 

much,"  she  said.  She  saw  again  that  love  was  not 
dead  in  his  heart  and  the  revelation  frightened  her. 
"You  have  been  so  good  to  me,  'Gene,  and  I  don't 
know  how  I  am  ever  to  repay  you,"  she  hurried  on, 
eager  to  pass  the  crisis. 

"You — you  c'n  pay  me  in  your  own  way  an'  in 
your  own  time,"  he  said,  looking  intently  at  the 
ground,  uncertain  of  his  own  meaning. 

"We  leave  to-night,"  she  said,  "and  I  must  not 
go  away  without — without  settling  with  you." 

"Settlin'  with  me,"  he  echoed.  There  was  no 
passing  over  the  bitterness  in  his  voice.  "You  are 

goin'  to-night.  Good  God! "  he  burst  out, 

but  the  new  habit  of  self-repression  was  strong.  "I 
beg  your  pardon,  Justine,"  he  went  on  a  moment 
later.  "To-night?" 

"Mr.  Strong  will  take  us  to  the  train  at  six 
o'clock,"  she  said.  She  had  not  looked  for  so  much 
emotion.  '  'Gene,  I  owe  you  so  much  that  I  don't 
see  how  I  am  ever  to  pay  you.  Not  only  is  it 
money  that  I  owe,  but  gratitude.  I  have  thought  it 
all  out,  'Gene,  and  there  is  only  one  way  in  which 
I  can  pay  the  smallest  part  of  my  debt,  for  the  debt 
of  gratitude  can  never  be  paid.  I  have  sent  for 
'Squire  Rawlings  and — and,  'Gene,  I  know  you 
won't  misunderstand  me — I  am  going  to  ask  you 


340  THE   SHERRODS 

to  accept  this  farm  from  me,  to  be  yours  and  yours 
only.  The  'Squire  will  bring  the  deed,  and " 

"Justine!"  he  exclaimed,  looking  her  full  in  the 
eyes.  "You  wouldn't  do  that — you  don't  mean 
that!"  The  darkest  pain  she  had  ever  seen  was 
in  his  eyes. 

"You  deserve  it  and  more "  she  began, 

shrinking  before  his  gaze.  He  held  up  his  hand 
piteously  and  turned  his  face  away,  and  she  could 
see  his  struggle  for  control.  At  last  he  turned  to 
her,  his  face  white  and  drawn,  his  eyes  steady,  his 
voice  less  husky  than  before. 

"You  must  never  say  such  a  thing  to  me  ag'in, 
Justine.  I  know  you  meant  all  right  an'  you 
thought  I'd  be  satisfied  with  the  bargain,  but  you — 
you  mustn't  offer  to  pay  me  ag'in.  You've  paid  me 
all  that's  comin'  to  me,  you've  paid  me  by  makin' 
a  good  man  of  me,  that's  what  you've  done.  I'd  die 
before  I'd  take  this — this  land  o'  your'n  an'  that  lit- 
tle boy's.  You're  mighty  good  an' — an' Oh, 

cain't  you  see  it's  no  use  in  me  tryin'  to  talk  about 
it?  Wait!  You  was  about  to  begin  beggin'  me  to 
take  it.  I  want  to  ast  you  as  the  greatest  favor  you 
ever  done  for  me,  don't  say  it.  Don't  say  it.  I 
cain't  stand  it,  Justine!" 

"Forgive  me,  'Gene,  forgive  me,"  she  said,  tears 
streaming  down  her  cheeks.  "You  deserve  more 


CRAWLEY'S   LEGACY.          341 

than  I  can  ever  give  you,  dear  friend.     I  did  not 
mean  to  hurt  you " 

"It's  all  over,  so  let's  say  no  more  about  it,"  he 
said,  breathing  deeply  and  throwing  up  his  head. 
"I'll  take  keer  o'  your  farm  while  you're  gone,  Jus- 
tine, an'  it'll  be  here  in  good  order  when  you're 
ready  to  come  back  to  it.  It'll  be  kept  in  good 
shape  for  the  boy.  Don't  you  ever  worry  about 
the  place.  It's  your'n  an'  I'll  take  good  keer  of  it 
for  you.  You're  goin'  to  ketch  the  evenin'  train?'* 

"Yes,"  she  said  gently,  "and  I  may  be  gone  for 
a  long  time,  'Gene." 

"Well,"  he  said  with  difficulty,  "I  guess  we'd  bet- 
ter say  good — good-bye.  You've  lots  to  do  in  the 
house  an'  I  want  to  do  some  work  in  the  wagon- 
shed.  Good-bye,  Justine;  be — be  good  to  your- 
self." It  was  the  greatest  battle  that  rough  'Gene 
Crawley  had  ever  waged,  but  he  came  out  of  it 
without  a  scar  to  be  ashamed  of. 

"I  want  to  ask  you  to — to  look  after  Jud's  grave, 
'Gene,"  she  said,  her  hand  in  his.  "There  is  no  one 
else  I  can  ask,  and  I  want  it  kept  better — better  than 
the  rest  up  there.  Will  you  see  to  it  for  me?" 

"I'll — I'll  'tend  to  it  for  you,  Justine,"  he  said, 
but  his  face  went  pale. 

For  a  full  minute  she  looked,  speechless,  upon 
the  white,  averted  face  of  the  man  whose  love  was 


342  THE   SHERRODS 

going  to  its  death  so  bravely,  and  a  great  warmth 
crept  into  her  cold  veins — a  warmth  born  in  a 
strange  new  tenderness  that  went  out  to  him.  A 
sudden,  sharp  contraction  of  the  heart  told  her  as 
plainly  as  though  the  message  had  come  in  words 
that  the  love  in  this  man's  heart  would  never  die, 
never  falter.  Somehow,  the  drear,  chill  prospect 
grew  softer,  warmer  in  the  discovery  that  love 
could  still  live  in  this  dead,  ugly  world,  that  after 
all  fires  were  burning  kindly  for  her.  There  was  a 
thrill  in  her  voice  as  she  murmured,  brokenly : 

"Good-bye,  'Gene,  and  God  bless  and  keep  you." 

aGood-bye,"  he  responded,  releasing  her  hand. 
He  did  not  raise  his  eyes  until  the  door  of  the  cot- 
tage closed  after  her. 

At  dusk  David  Strong  drove  away  from  the  little 
house  in  the  lane,  and  the  Sherrods  went  with  him. 
'Gene  Crawley  stood  in  the  shadow  of  the  barn,  his 
hopeless  eyes  fastened  on  the  vehicle  until  it  was 
lost  among  the  trees. 

A  sharp,  choking  sound  came  from  his  throat  as 
he  turned  those  dark,  hungry  eyes  from  the  purple 
haze  that  screened  the  carriage  from  view.  About 
him  stretched  the  poor  little  farm,  as  dead  as  his 
hopes;  at  his  back  stood  the  almost  empty  barn; 
yonder  was  the  deserted  house  from  which  no  gleam 
of  light  shone. 


CRAWLEY'S   LEGACY          343 

He  was  alone.  There  was  nothing  left  but  the 
lifeless,  unkind  shadows.  Slowly  he  strode  to  the 
little  gate  through  which  she  had  passed.  His 
hands  closed  over  the  pickets  tenderly  and  then  his 
lips  were  pressed  to  the  latch  her  fingers  had 
touched  in  closing  the  gate  perhaps  for  the  last  time 
— closing  it  with  him  a  prisoner  until  she  chose  ta 
come  back  and  release  him. 

A  moment  later  his  face  dropped  to  his  arms  as 
they  rested  on  the  post,  and  he  sobbed  as  though  his 
heart  would  break. 


PRINCESS  MARITZA 

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